As a child of first-generation Indian immigrants, I am aware of the weight that a name carries and the connection to one’s identity. Recently, Fox News’ Tucker Carlson repeatedly mispronounced Vice-Presidential candidate Kamala Harris’ name, replying “whatever” to a guest who corrected him. That seemingly small TV moment triggered many children of immigrants because we have heard it before. We know that when a public personality unapologetically mispronounces a name, or questions someone’s birthright to do anything patriotic, and then voices their offense at being asked to open up their world view, our own experiences are painfully dredged up.

We experience an all too familiar discomfort of being pushed into “other”, not of this country, not of this place. Her name, Kamala Devi Harris, is but one presentation of that “otherness”.

Last week, this event was all I could talk about with my husband, friends and colleagues. We were brought back to countless times when we acquiesced to someone who was too bothered to learn how to say our names. In fact, there is a presumptive, albeit unfair, notion that the majority of Americans never learn how to say or spell seemingly complex non-Anglo names. So, we preempt conversations by anglicizing our names (Vikram becomes Vik, Ajay becomes AJ, Shailaja becomes Shelly). We trade in arguably the largest part of our identity to fabricate comfort for others, and in doing so, acknowledge our “otherness”.

My husband, also Indian, abbreviated his name from Nikhil to Nik when growing up in New Jersey. His high school guidance counsellor convinced him that no one would read a resume from a Nikhil. In school, some teachers would call him Ni-Hi. To avoid embarrassment, at roll call, he would cut those teachers off with “just call me Nik.” Today, he still recounts with remorse and anxiety the times he had to choose between his given name and the name that would allow him to fit in. Swap Nikhil with Ashoka, Malini or Anjali and you’ll hear the same story.

What’s in a name? Everything. Names are bound in genealogy, aspirations, virtues. Given names carry great weight in so many communities around the world including the Indian community. Many Hindu names are chosen with careful deliberation as zodiac and genealogy charts are consulted by high priests and naming ceremonies are considered sacred. Kamalameaning Lotus and Devi meaning Goddess was clearly no accidental selection for a future political rising star and I can venture to guess is consequential for Kamala Harris. That’s enough of a reason for us to learn how to say it right.

As Kamala Harris took the convention stage as the Democratic VP candidate, she reminded us of three things as it relates to the “other” syndrome. She catapulted to the national stage the name of a relatively unknown figure, Shyamala Gopalan. In recalling her South Indian-born mother and her influence, she, in effect, reminded us that identity and platform cannot be separated. She also boldly claimed her biracial Jamaican and Indian heritage, not succumbing to the pressure to choose one over the other, demonstrating to us that America does not have to choose either. As she acknowledged her love for her “chittis” (a South Indian term for aunties), she was creating a space to normalize language that may seem different for many and very normal to her. And finally, as a person of consequence, she demonstrated to us that anyone can be taught. Indeed, as I hear Kamala’s name (KUM-ah-lah) spoken correctly at last week’s Democratic National Convention by former Presidents and sitting senators, I hear my mother’s voice, as she used to say, “if people can pronounce Schwarzenegger and Tchaikovsky, they can surely say your name.”

We are human. We make mistakes. But let us all show interest and demonstrate effort by researching and asking for clarification when we are confronted with a name we can’t spell or pronounce. That action alone will engender trust and may make a case for a likeness between your place in this world and theirs.