“Call me Paul”
By: Tejpaul Bhatia
Tags: Names, Big Data, Immigration, Identity, Bigquery

My job gives me the amazing privilege of taking quarterly “Codecations.” These are three day retreats to tackle an engineering problem. I have built apps with Firebase, deployed them with Kubernetes, and layered in Artificial Intelligence with AutoML.

My most recent Codecation was on Big Data, particularly around a product called BigQuery. As part of my learning experience, I used the US Baby Name Dataset since 1910.

Did you know there were 76 kids named Tej born in the US between 1910 and 2020?

The next query I wrote was for kids named Tejpaul born in the US in 1978. There were zero.

Ummm, what? This was the rabbit hole to end all rabbit holes. I needed to find out if the data set is wrong or if there is an epic conspiracy around my birth.

It is neither. I asked my parents to send me my birth certificate and saw that my first name is written as “Tej Paul.” I have been writing it as “Tejpaul” my entire adult life.

It makes sense though. House names or baby names (different from your proper or public name) are common in Indian culture. For example, my cousin’s name is Herminder but we call him Sonu. I didn’t even know his real name until I used his driver’s license as a fake ID when I was a teenager.

My father’s nickname in India was Cuckoo and his younger brother’s nickname was Caca. They soon learned after moving to the United States that those nicknames won’t apply here.

When I was born my parents made my nickname part of my actual name. They named me “Tej Paul” and referred to me only as Paul. Growing up, my grandparents, sister, cousins, and extended family addressed me as Paul. In my twenties I thought this was a curse, but now as a parent I realize that my mom and dad did what they thought was best for me. I can only imagine how important and scary assimilation was for them as first generation citizens and immigrants in the 1970s.

As a young child I never thought about my full first name and each year before school, my parents would introduce me to my teachers as Paul. It was never an issue until I met Mr. G, my first substitute teacher. That day my name became a source of humiliation for me. My memory of the experience is:

Mr. G: <takes off his reading glasses> “Oh boy, I am going to butcher this name. Is there a T…T…T…..TJ?”

Me: <horrifically embarrassed> “Here, but please call me Paul.”

Mr. G: “No thanks, I’ll call you TJ from now on.” <class laughs>

Mr. G was a nice man and meant no harm, but that moment is burned into my memory and is the title of this blog post 30 years later.

For the remainder of elementary and high school, I stayed Paul and had “Call me Paul” ready before any substitute teacher could butcher my name publicly again.

Becoming Tej

I introduced myself as Paul to the first person I met on the first day of college orientation. He saw my name tag and said “No thanks, I’ll call you Tej.”

First, this made me feel amazing. My source of humiliation was now my calling card. I was unique. Maybe girls would like me now?

Second, I had an identity. For the first time in my life, I could define who I want to be. It would take me another 22 years to actually do it but at least I got started with the first three letters that day.

Third, I had a brand. Tejpaul is a difficult name to grasp, but once someone takes the time to learn it, they never forget it. Ironically, I am terrible with names and will probably never remember yours, but rest assured that I am grateful that you will now remember mine.

The Twist

I like to pronounce Tej like Ted but with a j. That is not how it is pronounced in India. Indians pronounce it with an accent on the e, so that it rhymes with Beige or Page.

I feel bad when Indian people correct my non-Indian friends and say they are mispronouncing my name.

Indians: If it is weird for you to pronounce Tej like Ted (and I totally get it), feel free to call me Beige Paul.

Pronunciation aside, my name carries a lot of weight for me. Being a Second Generation American with Brown skin, (or as I like to call it, American), having two identities is tiring. On one hand, I am Indian: my genes, my roots, my love of butter, chicken, and Butter Chicken. On the other hand, I am American. I feel immense pride in our country and what it stands for, even at the most trying of times. And when I combine both identities, I think of myself as a New Yorker. It is the perfect way to describe all parts of me, Tej and Paul.

Passing on the generational baggage

I want our son to know that my wife and I put a lot of time and thought into his name. Regardless, I won’t be surprised if in 20 years he will blog (or whatever futurites will do then) and sarcastically thank me for the burden of his name.

His name is Milan. We pronounce it Mil-On, like how North Americans pronounce the city in Italy. We chose the name for a few reasons:

Milan is a common Slavic name, an Ancient Roman name, and also an Indian name.

The definition of Milan in India is a union or a get together of family and friends. At Sikh Weddings there is a ceremony called the Milani where the two families meet, exchange garlands, and then your cousin lifts your brother-in-law and falls on your grandmother.

My wife is Italian and we go back to her hometown multiple times every year and therein lies the catch. In Italy they pronounce his name Mee-lan, like the soccer team. It is the equivalent of naming your son “Yankees” in NYC. In India, they pronounce it Mill-un and Indians are not shy to tell us that we pronounce his name wrong.

Last summer on the beach my son said “I don’t like when they call me Mee-lan.” I told him “Correct them. It is your name, not theirs.” It is a lesson I wish I had learned before I encountered Mr. G.

The point of this post