I know people usually wonder, “Why do so many Taiwanese people have English names?” I’d love to explain why I want, and probably need, one.
My legal name is 張珈榕, and in English, it’s Chia-Jung Chang. However, if we meet in a professional setting in the United States, I’ll likely introduce myself as Colette. It might seem like a significant leap from Chia-Jung, but the story behind it is quite simple: If you try to pronounce “Chia-Jung,” it’s 99.999999% likely you won’t pronounce it correctly, as I do in Mandarin. My experience isn’t unique. The Wade-Giles system the Taiwanese government uses for transliterating our names often results in most Taiwanese legal names in English not being pronounced as their real names should be in Mandarin.
If you think the reason I have an English name is due to my “blind faith in foreign things,” you are totally wrong. I cherish my given name so much. My parents chose it with meaningful expectations, and its characters even align with the principles of Yin Yang and Five Elements based on Chinese fortune telling. However, Wade-Giles simply doesn’t accurately represent the pronunciation of my Chinese name.
While my first name is 珈榕, the Wade-Giles transliteration, “Chia-Jung,” often leads to pronunciations that are far from the original sound. If my name were rendered in Hanyu Pinyin, it would be something closer to “Zhang, Jia-Rong,” which is much closer to how it’s actually pronounced in Mandarin.
This phonetic disconnect means that almost every time someone attempts to say “Chia-Jung,” it’s incorrect. And when your name is consistently mispronounced, it becomes more than a minor inconvenience; it becomes a constant low-level anxiety. Can you imagine being at the hospital, already feeling unwell, and needing to pay close attention to whether the distorted sound coming from the speaker is actually them calling your name? Or sitting in a high-pressure law school cold-call session, already nervous, and having to struggle with whether the professor is addressing you or someone else entirely, all because of an inaccurate transliteration?
These aren’t just minor embarrassments; they are moments that interrupt your focus and confidence. I’ve spent countless interactions either feeling unsure if I was being addressed or trying to correct someone’s pronunciation, only for them to still get it wrong, leaving both of us feeling awkward.
My family and friends have called me Coco since I was little. However, I need an official name, not just a nickname, in a professional working environment. That’s why I embrace Colette. It’s not about rejecting my heritage or my beautiful name. It’s about choosing a name that allows for immediate clarity and ease of communication, eliminating the constant friction and uncertainty. It means I can focus on the conversation, the task, or my health, without the added burden of linguistic guesswork. For me, having a name that is easily and consistently pronounced correctly is a profound relief and a key to more confident, smoother interactions in the Western world.
However, it’s important to acknowledge that not all Taiwanese individuals choose to adopt an English name while living or working in Western countries. Many bravely and rightfully choose to stick with their given Chinese names, even in professional settings, and they navigate the pronunciation challenges with grace. Their reasons might include a strong desire to preserve and assert their cultural identity, to educate others about the beauty and authenticity of their names, or simply because they prefer to be called by their true name in all contexts. And these are completely valid choices.
My decision to use Colette doesn’t diminish my cultural heritage or my pride in my name. It’s simply that I don’t believe the English characters translated through Wade-Giles with their often-weird pronunciation should define me, except on official documents where I have no choice. Instead, it reflects a personal strategy for navigating a diverse world. Ultimately, whether someone chooses an English name or retains their original name, it’s a deeply personal decision, often influenced by individual experiences, professional demands, and comfort levels. It highlights the many ways people from Taiwan adapt and express their identity on a global stage.
So, the next time you meet someone from Taiwan who introduces themselves with an English name, please remember it’s rarely a sign of “blind faith in foreign things” or a rejection of their own heritage. Instead, it might be a thoughtful, practical decision born from experiences similar to mine—a way to navigate a world that isn’t always set up for linguistic ease. It’s about finding a comfortable space to connect, communicate, and thrive, without the added burden of constant explanation or the subtle anxiety of being misunderstood.