White privilege is never being told that you’re spelling your last name incorrectly because others think it’s weird and cannot fathom the combination of consonants. It is having to defend the transliteration so many times to so many different people that you begin to wonder if you’re wrong - about your family’s name - after all.

White privilege is never becoming so frustrated with the constant mockery and confusion whenever someone encounters your name that, as a little girl, sometimes when you dream of getting married, it is not for love, but for the blessed day when you can present yourself as Mrs. Easily-Pronounceable instead of Miss Yes-That’s-My-Real-Name.

White privilege is never having to listen to your father jokingly tell people to think of your last name as an acronym, if that would make it easier for them. White privilege is never having to talk to your hurt family about why you want a different name so bad; never having to explain, in a child’s vocabulary, how every tripped-up pronunciation and “Wait, seriously? Where are the vowels in your name?” (as if my culture owes yours vowels) makes a little girl ashamed to show her heritage proudly in something so basic as her name.

Submission from elwynbrooks.