“How do you say your name?” That question has been asked by almost every single person I have met since coming to the United States. Some people, of course, simply go ahead and butcher the pronunciation.

My name is Caoimhe, pronounced  kw-ee-va. I come from the rural farming area in the bottom of Galway, Ireland, a place called Woodford. The population of  Woodford is 242 people according to our last census. My “neighbors” predominantly consist of woody forests, fields of livestock and herds of deer (which can range anywhere from a couple to more than 30). There, I live with my parents and two older sisters, Maeve and Aoibhín.

After spending all of my life living in Ireland, except for one year in Goshen, my identity is deeply rooted in the culture of the little island. I have missed the silence that lingers over the land – not a car engine or siren to be heard. I have missed the “Irish slang” (and regular profanity) we use in conversation to express ourselves. But what I have found myself longing for the most is people knowing my name. And no, I do not mean in the context of being known. I mean in the context of knowing how to address me by name without hesitation. One year ago, I found myself sitting in an empty dorm room with all of my belongings still packed into two large green and yellow suitcases. On the first morning of orientation, I waited  awkwardly in line to collect my printed name tag from the table of orientation leaders.

“What is your name?” one after another asked, not anticipating the confusion that followed. “My name is Caoimhe,” I responded, eager to start my new adventure. The prolonged struggle to receive my nametag was only a small glimpse into the challenging social situations I would  find myself in with a name that people did not know how to say.

Now I know what you may be thinking: “Yeah, well, almost everybody has had their name mispronounced.”  I completely agree. Almost everyone has had their name read wrong in front of a class and blushed when classmates laughed.  Everyone has felt that embarrassment at least once in their life. But, I challenge you to consider how you felt in that moment, and multiply it by every single day for the past year. That is what it feels like for me.

The first thing we do when we introduce ourselves to someone or order a coffee is state our name. It’s the foundational moment for every relationship. It is how we communicate with one another. My name is the core of my identity and who I am.

The name Caoimhe was given to me by my parents in the delivery room on Oct. 23, 2005. That day, my mum and dad conversed about whether Caoimhe should be spelled the original Irish way or  be anglicized to something “simpler,” like “Keeva.” The name Caoimhe is derived from the Irish word “caomh,” which translates to “dear, beloved and gentle.”

Despite all of the awkward interactions, mispronunciations and mocking jokes about the name Caoimhe, I am glad they did not anglicize it. It reminds me of who I am and the 3,565 miles I have migrated, from where Caoimhe is as common as Emma, or Sophia or Charlotte.  It reminds me of my sisters and family who also have traditional Irish names, and how beautiful those names are to me. And ultimately, it reminds me that I am Caoimhe, and that should not be made easier or softened for someone else to feel more comfortable.

I do not wish for people to fear asking how to pronounce my name, or for people to simply avoid saying my name. In fact, that is the opposite of what I want. Instead, I want to remind those who may not know how to pronounce a name, to just ask me. As someone who has heard their name said or seen it spelled in hundreds of different ways, or had it compared to other words and laughed at, I promise I will not be offended if you ask.

My identity begins with knowing how to pronounce Caoimhe, as your identity starts with your name. I encourage you to ask;  I encourage you to try and fail (after all that is how people learn); and if all of those options seem too intimidating or uncomfortable for you, just Google it.

I believe that it is okay to ask someone, even if it takes a couple of tries and reminders. I believe that if you are really trying to get it right, that’s completely OK. But what I do not think is OK is to avoid addressing me simply because my name might not “look right” in your eyes. I deserve to be addressed with warmth and without hesitation. If you visit me in Ireland, I will be happy to introduce you to my sisters, Maeve and Aoibhín, but you first must learn how to say my name.