It all started with my aching feet.  Forced into appropriate attire for a job interview, I was limping, unaccustomed to anything more formal than sneakers.  Shoes that are comfortable in the store can be anything but, after a few hours of pounding the pavement.  The solution?  More shoes, of course.  I zipped into a store in Times Square, and when I was ready to purchase, the guy at the register looked at my credit card and asked, "Why didn't you change it?"  Admonishing my taste in shoes?  No, my name.

From my unaccented English, he deduced that I grew up in America, so why hadn't I changed my Japanese name to something more suitably Western?  The man was a bespectacled Asian, and his name tag claimed one of those American standards, those classic monosyllablics like Joe, Steve or Mike, but his last name showed his heritage – Chinese.  I had never been asked this question before so I hemmed, I hawed, then I bought the shoes and left. 

The simple answer is that it had never occurred to me to change my given name.  In my mind, last names were mutable.  As a woman, marriage would alter my last name, although in these progressive times, I could retain or even hyphenate my name with another's, creating a last name hybrid.  In one article, I read about an ingenious couple who chose letters from both their family names and combined them to created a new name altogether.  But my first name?  That was personal. 

Nonetheless, certain questions can tilt your world off axis, and once asked, I started to notice the trend everywhere.  The woman who rented my apartment before me introduced herself as Genevieve, but the letters addressed to her in the mail that I occasionally get offer a different Chinese name altogether.  Apparently, Asian Americans take on more Western names all the time and I’ve been oblivious.  I’m talking about individuals who have an official Asian name given to them at birth but who use a different, non-legal name, professionally or socially, later in life.

Usually, people change their given names for convenience’s sake.  Too many people mispronounce foreign names.  JooYoun Paek, an artist I once interviewed, said that she has long since given up on correcting people who botch her name, and so have I.  Even when a recent interviewer asked the desk attendant my gender over the phone, because he couldn't tell from my name, it never occurred to me that the inconvenience was anything more than, well, an inconvenience.  Still, I wonder whether the motives run deeper.  Is this a form of assimilation?  Do names transcend the personal?  Are they in fact political?  Is a new name like another role or personality?  Is this akin to the Clark Kent vs. Superman divide?  I ask because assuming two names brings up issues of alter egos and, ultimately, authenticity. 

I always thought that pseudonyms were only for actors, artists, and occasionally writers.  These were the real shape-shifters among us who want new personas or need to preserve anonymity.  The most instructive, albeit extreme, example of this is Nikki S. Lee, a performance artist and photographer, who constantly transforms her appearance in order to immerse herself in various cultures.  By altering weight, clothing, hair color, and numerous other factors, she has taken on different identities – the Yuppie, the Japanese school girl, the stripper, the skateboarder, the lesbian, etc.  In his introductory essay, “Let’s be Nikki,” to the book nikki s. lee: projects, Russell Ferguson writes, “When Lee Seung-Hee came to America in 1994, one of her first decisions was to get an ‘American’ name.  She asked a friend to send her some to choose from. On receipt of them, the choice was made, and Nikki S. Lee came into existence.  Only later did Lee discover than her friend had compiled her list from names in that month’s Vogue.  Nikki Lee, it turns out, is named after the model Nikki Taylor.”  

Putting motives aside for a moment, will any name do?  In high school, a friend tried to give me an American name and suggested Pollyanna without a trace of irony.  Well, my world view is more sooty than rose-colored so a less suitable name is hard to imagine, and few things are as offensive as being called something inappropriate whether it’s a racial epithet or an unflattering nickname.  Perhaps a more neutral name, less loaded with cultural references would do.  I’ve always been partial to Zoe.

Rihoko Ueno is a freelance writer in NY. She regularly writes and edits for ALARM Magazine.