A Horse Called Khaylis

A Horse By Any Other Name

Growing up in International schools full of white kids and white teachers, I always had a problem with people mispronouncing my name. On the first day of school (at many different schools throughout the years), when it came time for the class role call, I could always tell when my name would be called next by the teacher.

It would start with a furrowed brow, a scratching of the head, then came an earnest attempt to pronounce the first few syllables ("Noooorrrr...Noorrayzzz...Nnngghhrrrrxxx..."), followed by an exasperated sigh, perhaps a few beads of sweat gathering at the temples, then a full on massacre of my given name, ending with a triumphant smile of accomplishment. The class would inevitably errupt into a chorus of giggles, poking fun at the kid with the weird ethnic name.

I would meekly raise my hand and squeak out here "Here...", wishing to be anywhere else but.

Oh, how I detested my name, and the unwanted attention it brought! How I wished I had a plain vanilla name like my friend Jane, or a romantic European sounding name like my friend Isabella or even better, a name after a flower like Violet or Rose. I couldn't understand why my parents would bestow such an ugly name on me. Didn't they know how difficult it made my life? How hard it was already to fit in?

So, to make it easier for everyone, namely, me, I took it upon myself to edit my name, shortening it to the last three letters of my nine-lettered name - a thunderously long name by Western standards, full of difficult consanants like Y and Z . I mean, come on! What kind of parents would give their kid a name with the last two letters of the alphabet, cozying up next to each other!

I remember reading an article in Time or Newsweek on a study that said that to make it big in politics, it was best to have, at most, 2 syllables and 2 vowels in your name; BUSH. CLIN-TON. RA-ZAK. NA-JIB. PAK-LAH (just kidding). Shortening my name at the age of 6 would have ensured me a bright future in politics.

So, to set the tone for the rest of the year, on the first day of school, after the brutal homicide of my name during role call, I would reply "Here. But you can call me XXX". My new, shorter, improved name was still somewhat exotic, if not Germanic, or Scandanavian sounding, but by far much more palatable to my teachers and friends. One syllable, one vowel, no stammering, no laughing. Short and sweet, like my bowl cut. And so, XXX I was from then on.

Then, in 3rd Grade, I was put in a class with a lovely teacher called Mrs. Joseph. Mrs. Joseph, who use to read out loud to us during Reading Time Roald Dahl books like Matilda and The Witches while we sprawled out on the carpeted floor, entranced by her every word. Who use to strum her guitar and sing to us in her sweet voice, songs like Yellow Bird, Mr. Froggie Went A Courtin', The Lion Sleeps Tonight, and On Top Of The World as we sang along in chorus. Who, with her delicate porcelain skin, auburn hair in large round bouncy curls and stylish dresses cinched at her small waist, embodied everything womanly, who seemed to exist in a waft of perfume. I think everyone in our class was a bit in love with Mrs. Joseph, because she really was, quite lovely. And because she always sang us songs by The Carpenters, for the longest time, I really thought Karen Carpenter looked like Mrs. Joseph.

One day, she held me back after class, saying she wanted a private word with me. My little anxious 3rd grade self scanned my memory for any misdeeds - forgotten homework, unneighborly behaviour, tardiness...God forbid I did anything to anger the lovely Mrs. Joseph!

As the rest of the class filed out for reccess, I cautiously approached her desk to face my impending ominous sentence.

Hello XXX. Please, sit down. I wanted to talk to you because I have a favour to ask of you.

Yes, Mrs. Joseph, anything for you Mrs. Joseph.

Well, as you know, my husband and I breed racing horses in New Zealand.

(I didn't know this) Yes, of course Mrs. Joseph.

Well, we've recently bought a young racehorse to add to our stable.

Oh! How wonderful Mrs. Joseph!

Yes it is! He's a real beauty. Well...we were thinking of names for the horse, and, well I telling my husband the other day of how much I admired your lovely name.

What? Really?! My name, Mrs. Joseph? Are you sure? MY name?

Yes, your full name. I just think it's such a beautiful and exotic name! I'd like to ask your permission to name my racehorse after you.

OH WOW Mrs. Joseph, of course you can!

Are you sure? I really do think he's going to be quite a winner!

Of course! Of course you can!

And so, thats how there came to be a racehorse called Nurazeyan. I remember Mrs. Joseph passing me a newspaper clipping with the headline "Nurazeyan Wins!", quite a proud moment for Nurazeyan's owners', by horse, and by name.

So, although I couldn't bring myself to appreciate and love my thunderously long name, thinking I never deserved such a name by harping on how difficult it made my life, and how it underlined the cultural chasm between myself and everyone else in school, from that day forward, enlightened by a graciously benevolent Western teacher and one winnning racehorse, I thought, perhaps if it's good enough for such a grand and beautiful animal; a real Winner; perhaps one day, I would live up to deserving such a beautifully thunderous name as well.