L.A. JOHNSON
A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service. -- Henry David Thoreau 
Saleh Waziruddin's name routinely gets mangled -- as gnarled as a Mercedes grille in a crack-up with a Mack truck.
Some have twisted his Arabic name, Saleh, into Saul, Solid, Salad and even Slutch.
Slutch?
For the record, his name is pronounced (SA-leH Wa-ZEER-ud-DEEN).
When he has introduced himself over the phone in political circles, some have misheard him, mistaking him for former Pittsburgh city official Sala Udin and offering him a hearty, "How are you doing, councilman?"
"I can't say there haven't been times where it was to my advantage not to make the correction," says Mr. Waziruddin, 28, of Wilkinsburg. He often obtained the information he was seeking or had his call transferred more quickly when he was mistaken for the former councilman.
When he momentarily has stepped out of the room at business meetings, some have asked his colleagues how to pronounce his Persian last name and have simply been told, "You don't."
Despite the chronic mispronunciations, Mr. Waziruddin doesn't plan to change his name.
"Changing wouldn't be true to the consciousness of who I am," says the Canadian-born Mr. Waziruddin, who moved to Pittsburgh 11 years ago.
"There are periods when ethnic pride is very high, and people say, 'I'm going to keep my name,' " says Edward Callary, a Northern Illinois University associate professor of English and past editor of the American Names Society's quarterly journal, Names. "Then, in the 19th century it was more common to translate or Americanize your name."
What is in a name? A name can easily roll off the tongue or cause lips to stumble. Names and their perceived meanings can shape or distort identity. Some once considered Sen. Barack Hussein Obama's name a potential political liability in a terror-fearing post 9/11 America. However, now that he's a popular political darling and mulling over a bid for the U.S. presidency in 2008, his is a winning brand name rich in political capital.
For as long as immigrant communities have been coming to America, people have grappled with the idea of changing their names.
Throughout history, some have changed their names because they were difficult to pronounce or to hide their country of origin because of biases toward certain groups, says Stanley Lieberson, a Harvard University sociologist.
"Right now, it's rough having a Middle Eastern name," Professor Lieberson says. "In World War II, if you were German, you sure didn't want to have a German name."
There were times when Irish immigrants dropped the "O' " from their surnames and Italian immigrants omitted vowels at the end of theirs.
"Between a third and 40 percent of American names have been changed," says Edwin D. Lawson, professor emeritus of psychology, State University of New York at Fredonia and past president of the American Names Society. Of the 685,000 who've become naturalized citizens in the past year, about 16 percent have requested a name change, according to United States Citizenship and Immigration Services statistics.
In the eight-county region that includes Allegheny County at its center, about 15 percent of the estimated 1,300 people who became naturalized citizens during the past year asked for a name change.
Of the 506 people who have become naturalized citizens in Pittsburgh thus far this year, about 33 percent have changed their names.
"You can change your name to anything but Jesus Christ," says Keith Anderson, deputy clerk for the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania.
When Sayeh Tavangar became a U.S. citizen in 2000, she thought about adopting an American middle name.
"I couldn't take everybody butchering my name," says Ms. Tavangar, 25, of McCandless.
When she orders a drink at Starbucks, she gives the name Lola to avoid hearing, "Venti soy latte for Siher." The same goes for restaurant waiting lists.
"It's just so much easier," she says.
She vividly remembers her first day of fourth grade in 1990 when she'd just moved to Queens, N.Y., from Iran and didn't speak any English.
"The teacher kept trying to introduce me saying, 'This is the new girl from Iran,' and I didn't even know she was saying my name because she was saying it so incorrectly," says Ms. Tavangar, whom Pittsburgh magazine in January named one of the city's 25 most beautiful people. "I always hated the first day of class."
Her name is pronounced (SIGH-eh TAV-an-jer). She has been called Saiey, Sigh-ee, Sisi, Suheh and Messiah. And more than once, perhaps because of the speed or cadence of her voice, people have thought she said her name was Diane, when she's answered her work phone.
She's given up on correcting most people because they still say it wrong. A supervisor at a previous job never got it right.
"You want to slap them and say, 'How can you not know my name? I've worked here so long,' " she says, laughing.
"Every time I tell people I'm Persian, they say, 'Oh, Peru,' " she says, laughing even harder. "And I think, if this person thinks I'm from Peru, is it worth correcting them? Do I even want to talk to them?"
When she explains that Persia is the former name for Iran, people immediately think of Iraq. Then, the questions begin.
"What do you think of terrorism? Do you have family back there? Do you have anybody in your family who has been involved in that?"
"When they make such a stupid comment, I kind of look at them and think there's no hope," she says. "I just ignore it."
Growing up in New York, she didn't experience people having as much trouble with her name, she says, because New York is more diverse and names like hers are more common. She's proud of her name and doesn't intend to change it.
"Just because I live here and have to deal with this, I'm not going to give up my culture and heritage," says Ms. Tavangar, who serves on the board of the Iranian American Council.
When she has children, she plans to give them "definitely Persian names as well that are very hard to pronounce," she says.
Alex Colon, whose full name is Alejandro Jose Colon Vale (Al-e-HAN-dro HO-zay Ca-LOAN VAL-ay), doesn't yet have children, but to spare his future children the moniker mangling he has endured, he may give them English-language names if they're going to be growing up in Pittsburgh.
"If I lived in Miami or California or New York or someplace like that where I knew they wouldn't have such a hard time with the same name, I might consider giving them Spanish names," says Mr. Colon, 28, of Shadyside.
He moved from Puerto Rico to Orlando, Fla., in 1998, lived in Germany for a time and then moved to Pittsburgh in 2004. When he went to set up his cell phone service, the saleswoman had a difficult time with his name.
"My last name was a big deal for her and why did I have two last names and how do you say the first one," he remembers the woman asking him.
His two first names and two last names prove too difficult for many to pronounce. He's been called Alesandro, Alejandro, with a hard "J," Colon, as in rectal, and Vale like Vail, Colo.
"Isn't that tragic," he says.
So, he goes by his childhood nickname, Alex, and just one of his last names.
"Some people have some sort of exposure to other cultures or they may have heard the name before," he says. "Other times, they just don't get it."
American-born Kamala Ramaswamy (ram-a-SWA-mee) is half American and half east Indian. Her German-Hungarian-Irish mother from Akron, Ohio, gave her and her siblings Indian first names to match their father's last name.
"I have to learn to say THAT?" she recalled thinking as a kindergartner, when she saw her name written out.
People routinely mispronounce her first name, even though it rhymes with the familiar Pamela. She's been called Carmella, Camera, Kuhala, Camille and Camilla, when she studied Russian.
"It's a good call screener," says Ms. Ramaswamy, 38, of West Homestead. "If you can't say my name, I know you don't know me."
She corrects people up to three times, then gives up.
"I know who they're talking about and I might as well just answer," she says. "If I speak to you once a quarter or barely need to talk to you, it doesn't really matter."
What's maddening is the assumptions people make about her because of her name, she says.
She grew up in Brownsville, White Oak and Irwin and specifically mentions that she's a Western Pennsylvania native in job cover letters, because people think she is from India.
"Gee, you speak English good," some have said to her. She jokes she doesn't bother to correct their grammar.
"If you're in a technical area or medical office, they want you on their team because people think you're better," she says.
But when she and her siblings were young, over a number of summers, they each applied for jobs at a local ice cream shop and none of them ever got a call back even though a "Help Wanted" sign remained in the shop window.
In a previous job, a client from Brownsville questioned her about her name saying, "How do you say that name? We just don't get names like that down here."
"What's funny is, that's where my dad had his practice," she recalls.
Some people also seem surprised to learn she's Lutheran and enjoys country music.
While names can be indicative of someone's ethnic heritage, they don't necessarily reveal who someone is, she says. The biggest lesson people need to learn about people and names is simple.
"Don't assume."
First Published November 14, 2006, 12:00am
