On paper, my full name is Edlyn Teresita Magnayon.
To friends and relatives, my full name is Edlyn Teresita Elena Perez-Magnayon.
My name is a source of my cultural pride.
But my name is also a conundrum.
Names, and even nicknames, in Filipino culture hold much significance and weight. They are long because they reveal family ancestry, stories, tributes, and quirks. Spelling and pronunciation are precise and sometimes, dependent on dialect. My name is no exception.
My name is best pronounced in the mouths of native Tagalog speakers - or, at the very least, that of those who can speak Tagalog with its accent.
Emphasis on “lyn” but pronounced as “leen.” Staccato Teresita. Hard T. Rolled R. Harsh “see.” Softer “ta.” Elena, not melodious but flat. “Eh-leh-nah.” A Spanish-sounding Perez. A distinctly Filipino lilt for the last part of my name. “Mug-NAH-yohn.”
My name is an amalgam of my family. Literally.
Edlyn is a combination of my father and mother’s names, Edgar and Evangeline, but with “prettier” spelling. To my American-born, non-Filipino friends, I am a ship name synonymous to Brangelina. To my Filipino friends, I follow our cultural tradition of combining our father and mother’s names (Joseph + Mary = Jomari, for example).
Teresita, an official tribute to my father’s mother. (Fun fact: My mother did not have a say in this.)
Elena, an unofficial tribute to my mother’s mother. (Fun fact: I chose this as my Confirmation name because I felt that my previous fun fact wasn’t fair.)
Perez, an unofficial inclusion of my mother’s maiden name. A Filipino custom reminiscent of Spanish-naming traditions back when the Philippines was a colony of Spain.
Magnayon, an official acknowledgement of my heritage. My father takes a lot of pride in the fact that our last name is unique and defining. All Magnayons are related - all six hundred of us have originated from the same people in Kalibo-Aklan. Magnayon is inherently Filipino, meaning “from the town.” Magnayon is inherently Filipino in that our family refused to take a Spanish last name when our Spanish colonizers decreed it.
My name is a source of my cultural pride.
But my name is also a conundrum.
I do not look like my name. In high school, seldom anyone knew its origin and much less my ethnicity. My peers called me “Wasian,” “half-white,” “half-Chinese,” “Hispanic,” “Latina,” and the most disheartening “some sort of Asian.”
My name is a challenge for any non-Filipinos. I have heard the stumbles and hesitations of teachers, substitute teachers, judges, and MCs. I have had my name mispronounced on video during award presentations and graduations. My first name is two syllables, not three. My last name is pronounced exactly as it is seen.
But I have learned to let three syllables of my first name slide. My last name’s pronunciation has been Americanized for convenience. Though it may not sit right, I know the sounds are difficult to produce in a foreign mouth.
My mother has often said she would have named me “Elle” or “Ella” if she had her way. Simple and easy for the English tongue. I have always thought these names to be beautiful. So much so that I have adapted “Elle” and even “Ellie” for my Starbucks orders (for the purpose of beauty, but also convenience).
But I do not feel like an “Elle” or an “Ella” or an “Ellie.” Perhaps when I was younger, I harbored some resentment towards my full name. I was saddened by how out-of-place I was in the sea of people with first-names like Michelle and Jessica and last-names like Lee and Thomas. But as I grew older, I also grew to embrace my roots. I am unabashedly proud of my heritage and my culture. I say my name with confidence and with the weight of its struggles, histories, and traditions.
Edlyn Teresita Elena Perez-Magnayon.
