Sometimes short interactions with strangers leave you with nothing of substance, but other times, their words stay with you long after your encounter. I believe that occasionally it’s important to listen to strangers.  

For most of my life I’ve pronounced my name Amita Diarra. I did this because it was easy for other people to understand and pronounce. But that’s not the proper way to pronounce my name. And for a long time, I didn’t mind when people said the anglicized pronunciation of my name. That wasn’t something I thought about very often until I met a specific substitute teacher.  

One day during my junior year of high school, my friends and I walked into class and were delighted to find out that our teacher was absent. As the class settled down, the substitute walked around the room and took attendance. He was a middle aged, West African man. When he got to my desk, he asked for my name. I slowly said, Amita Diarra. He looked at me and then his attendance sheet. I still remember what his face looked like as his head lifted for the second time; with face of confusion and said distastefully “I’ve never heard anybody say that name like that”. I was speechless. I think I said, “Oh really?” and quickly tried to explain why I pronounce my last name like that. Frankly, it was quite embarrassing. Without a word, he moved on to the next person. For the rest of the class, I replayed that interaction in my head over and over. I remember thinking, how dare he tell me how to pronounce my name! It made me so upset. After class, I told all my friends what he had happened and how rude I found his comment to be. Unlike me, they found it pretty funny. 

In the following weeks and months, I would think about this interaction and still feel that same frustration. Eventually, I realized why, because he was right. People don’t pronounce my last name like that. I had neglected my name for so long that I felt guilty for not saying it correctly and telling others how to pronounce it properly. Growing up, I spent so much time distancing myself from my culture rather than embracing it. I heard jokes about Africans and the negative stereotypes associated with them. Even though those jokes were made in elementary and middle school, the sentiments behind them stuck with me. I knew those comments didn’t characterize Africa or Africans, but I didn’t want to be associated with those ideas.  

My anger came from a place of guilt and I would not have realized that, if it hadn’t been for some passive aggressive substitute teacher. As much as I hate to say it, he opened my eyes and made me realize that pronouncing my name correctly does matter. I don’t need to forfeit my name for the comfort and convenience of others. I no longer anglicize my last name out of respect for myself and my ancestors. I’m Malian and I’m proud of that. Now I say my name, Amita Diarra with pride and I make sure that other people pronounce it properly too.