Hi, I’m Giyen Kim. It’s a highly problematic name. Not quite Korean. Definitely not American. No one gets it.
My birth name was supposed to have been Jiyeon or Ji-yun, which the internet tells me was the seventh-most popular girl’s name in South Korea in 1980. I tried to figure out its meaning, but apparently, it differs based on the hanja used to write each syllable of the name. There are 61 hanja with the reading “ji” and 56 hanja with the reading “yeon.” Since I am not fluent and have never seen my parent’s spelling of my name, there is no way of actually knowing.
I did do a quick Google search to see if I could find the meaning of Jiyeon on a Korean baby names website. I found definitions like “happiness” or “blessing” or “beautiful and clever,” which I’ll admit gave me a bit of a lift. Seeking out a bit more gratification, I redirected my attention to another website where I read that “jiyeon” also means “delay” and “retardation.” Their words, not mine. The internet can be a real asshole sometimes.
How it went from Jiyeon to Giyen is pretty hilarious. My parents immigrated from Korea to Texas in 1968, and I was born in 1974. Even after six years, they were still mostly illiterate. When they tried to convey the name Jiyeon to the hospital administrators, it got lost in translation. Between the thick Korean and Texas accents, Jiyeon became Giyon. I imagine it went something like this –
“Now, what’s her name?” (Texas accent)
“Jiyeon.” (Korean accent)
“GEEE-YOOON?” (Texas)
“No! Jeeee-yun.” (Korean)
“GEE-ON?” (Texas)
“JEE-YUN!” (Korean)
“GI-YON?” (Texas)
I know you can see how this went down.
And yes, I meant Giyon. That is the name on my birth certificate. Or at least it was before I had it corrected. Somehow between our life in Texas and when I started elementary school in Coos Bay, Oregon, another iteration was born. I am pretty sure something similar happened with the school administrators at the Bangor Elementary School. Whether it was my parent’s illiteracy, a spelling error, or more confusion due to the accents – Giyon became Giyen (pronounced Jee-yen). I’ve never known it any other way.
For all intents and purposes, Giyen is a made-up name. I haven’t found another Giyen out there. It doesn’t mean anything, and I am pretty sure the pronunciation is unique. I know this because Korean people constantly correct how I pronounce my name. As if at the age of 48, I did not get the memo that my name is totally screwed up in any language.
Kim, on the other hand, is like the “Smith” of Korea. Twenty percent of the Korean population has this surname. And it’s the name people mistakenly call me about 60 percent of the time. You cannot imagine how many emails I’ve received that start with “Dear Kim.”
When I was a pre-teen, I wished my name was Nicole after Nicole Chapman, a character on the 1980s television show Fame. At the time, I couldn’t think of anything more romantic than being a high school student living in New York City and attending the school for performing arts. Plus, I am pretty sure she was the only glamourous Asian American Pacific Islander on television back then. Aside from Long Duck Dong, of course.
By the time middle school rolled around, I had started telling people to call me “Jenny.” I figured it was close enough to my childhood nickname, Jiyeony (pronounced Jee-yun-nee), and I was sick of people mispronouncing my name. I liked the sound of “Jenny Kim” because it seemed to be just as milquetoast as a Jenny Smith would be. All I wanted in middle school was to blend in and be like everyone else. No surprise, calling myself Jenny didn’t really help that much. It didn’t last but a year.
Lately, I’ve come across a new sort of shame with the name Giyen. Because of the pandemic, we’ve all been working remotely for years. Back in pre-covid times, we used to sit in large conference rooms and go around in a circle to introduce ourselves. I only now realize the elegance of that solution. Nowadays, when you introduce people on Zoom, the meeting facilitator starts by introducing themselves and then tags the next person. That person then introduces themselves, tags the next person, and so on.
Typically what happens is all the western names get introduced first. The meeting facilitator will say, “I’ll pass it to Sara.” Sara will pass it along to Mark. Mark will pass it to Steve. And then Steve will venture out and say, “I’ll pass it to Humberto.” He’ll pronounce it with a hard H, and Humberto will endeavor to correct everyone when it’s his turn. The Letitias and the Soliels will go next. Then the Trans. And then at the very end of the introductions, one of two things will happen – Tran will say, “I’m tagging Ghee-yen.” or even better, Tran will announce, “I think everyone has gone already.” At which point, I’ll unmute myself and say meekly, “I think you forgot me.” This always brings out a little bit of my school girl angst. If you’ve ever been picked last for anything, you know exactly what I am talking about.
Having a name like Giyen is not all bad. From time to time, I’ll benefit from its uniqueness. For example, getting a social media handle is no problem. I am at @giyen across all platforms. No one is vying for this handle because no one wants it. Raise your hand if you’re looking for a name people have difficulty pronouncing or spelling. Wait – no one? Not even you in the back? Exactly.
Another benefit is people often forget unusual names they can’t recognize or spell in their head. When I meet someone I never want to see again, the chances are high that they won’t be able to look me up later. They’re typically looking for a Gianne. Or a Kim. It’s wonderful when someone you don’t hit it off with can’t ever find you later.
One time I got pulled over on my way to the repair shop to get my muffler replaced. I was about 22 years old and trying to keep it together as a single mom. That morning was a perfect storm. I was running late, and in my rush to get out the door, I accidentally left my wallet at home and didn’t have any identification. And for whatever reason, my insurance and registration information wasn’t in the glove compartment like it usually was. To top it off, my toddler started wailing in the back seat for no reason. When the officer reached my window, I was flustered and sweating.
I tried to explain the situation to no avail. The officer wasn’t having any of it. Instead, he told me he was going to teach me a lesson about organization and time management and proceeded to write four tickets, totaling close to $1000 in fines. I know I technically deserved them, but really? No mercy.
I couldn’t afford the fines, so I headed to the courthouse a few weeks later to contest the tickets. I had a driver’s license and insurance, and my vehicle was registered – I just didn’t have the documents on me that day. When I was called up to the clerk’s window, the woman asked my name. I gave it to her – Giyen Kim. She looked through the docket. I wasn’t on there. She checked the database. Nothing.
She had me look through the docket to see if I could find myself. Nope, no, Giyen Kim. But just a little ways down the list was a Kim Gian. I had been lost in translation again. I asked the clerk to double-check if she could see any tickets under my name, and she confirmed there were none. I was free and clear. Instead of pointing out the error, I turned around and walked out the door without an ounce of guilt.
I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?
