“…What’s Your Name?”

Illustration by Meghan Zhang

“Sorry… What’s your name?”

You’ll look into my almost-black eyes, brunette hair framing a round face you could forget

tomorrow. Maybe you’ll think I’m pretty. Maybe not. Nothing to make you think twice. Just

another white girl from around here.

“Alissa,” I’ll reply.

You’ve heard it before. Alycia, Alisha, Elisa… close enough. Not too common, but not rare

either – you’ll remember my name.

“What about you?”

You’ll answer my question, but my accent creeps in and you can’t quite place it. You know

English isn’t my first language, so you’ll ask me where I’m from next. I’ll start telling you my

life story, hoping you don’t think I’m self-centred. There just isn’t an easier way to explain.

My passport is Bulgarian, my driver’s licence is French, my first visa is English, my second

one is Canadian. Bulgarian is my mother tongue, yet I write better in English. I can discuss

Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal for hours, yet I can’t name five Bulgarian authors. It’s confusing,

I know.

When I was eight, no one asked me if I wanted to move to France. I didn’t have a choice

but to learn French. I hated it. Instead of watching Disney Channel after school, I was

conjugating verbs on the kitchen counter, huffing and puffing. Rather than enjoying carefree

summers without homework, I was reading aloud French books to my parents, perfecting

my pronunciation. It felt like punishment. Little did I know how I’d miss it in a few years…

Like most Europeans, I was also learning English in school. I’d started in kindergarten, and

as it turned out, French children weren’t very good at it. I was. It was fun. All the great

movies and books were in English anyway. I read The Hunger Games at the beach and

watched Star Wars with my father when I was ten. It somehow stuck. I grew up in that small

town near Paris, but I didn’t get to speak English outside of class, so the accent stayed. There, I

got my driver’s licence.

Languages, reading, and writing… that’s my thing. I chose to go to the University of Essex

because of my amour pour l’anglais – something my guidance counsellor couldn’t quite

comprehend. So, I got my first visa.

Far away from that unnecessarily complex and très overrated French, I now study

Literature and Journalism. In English. The beauty of it is that people speak English with

accents from around the world. No one cares if I accidentally roll an “r” or obnoxiously read

“Roland Barthes” with the French pronunciation. They’ve heard it all before.

Yet, every time I hear French spoken around me, my heart squeezes. When I stretch my

tongue and feel those words on my lips, the ones I’d despised learning, I feel comfort. It’s

like coming home. My closest friends are French. I’d spent over half my life translating my

thoughts and feelings into French. So, when I missed it too much, I signed up to teach

French at a local elementary school in Colchester – hoping to ease some of the pain that

comes with learning when to scribble down “lequel,” “laquelle,” “lesquels”…

But a glance at my “unique” last name will remind you that I’m not French or British. I hated

when people asked how to pronounce it – and still butchered it – because it was a reminder

that I was not from there.

Over the years, it became a badge of honour. Yes, I am different, but I made it there, and

there, and here. I still can’t tell you how to pronounce it with your accent either. I only know

the Bulgarian way. I carry one of our most common surnames, our version of Smith or

Dubois – Naydenova was once given to nameless orphans. Now, I sign my writing with it.

Regardless of where I grew up, where I’ve studied, and where I’ll go next, I am Bulgarian

through and through. My ancestors survived Ottoman rule, dressing the boys as girls so

they wouldn’t be killed. They endured communism with limited water and electricity, needing

special permission to travel outside the country as translators and engineers. Still, they are

there, calling me from across the world to say, “You’re our pride. When are you coming to

visit?”

And when I go back for a week or two, I’ll sit at the family table and finally eat the food I’ve

been craving for months - лютеница, баница, сърми… No, those aren’t hieroglyphs but

the letters of my people, the inventors of the Cyrillic script. It’s not Russian either. Russian

was actually based on our alphabet…

But for now, here I am in Kingston. With my second visa. You’ll pass me on the street and

overhear me on the phone, one French word after the other rushing out of my mouth. You’ll

turn your head slightly – perhaps your parents are Quebecois, or you studied French in

school… In an hour, you’ll stand behind me at Metro as I type a quick message to my

grandmother. She’ll correct all the spelling mistakes I made – a reminder it might be time to

pick up a book in Bulgarian – and recognition will flicker on your face.

“Sorry… What was your name again?”

I am that same brown-haired, brown-eyed white girl from before. Privileged enough to drift

across the world, headphones in, imagining the next story I’ll write. In English – so

everybody understands.

“Alissa.”