Katy Lemay for The Globe and Mail
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
My name is Shekhar (pronounced SHAY-kher).
It came from a dream my mom had when she was 16 in which she was running to her Hindu temple in the middle of the night because she heard footsteps chasing her. As she ran down the alleyways, crudely cleft cobblestones made her stumble, but she raced toward the white temple she frequented, knowing it would provide safety.
The footsteps grew closer but eventually she found the temple and when she opened the large wooden doors, the footsteps disappeared. As she walked on the cool marble floor, the smell of sandalwood incense calmed her. She noticed a statue in the middle of the temple, with the name Shekhar carved under it. In Sanskrit, it refers to the peak of a mountain or the crest of a wave.
A decade later, I was born, and that's what she named me.
When I turned 8, we moved from India to Canada. It was December, and when we stepped out of the airport, I marvelled at the fact that I could see my breath.
As my uncle drove us in his station wagon, I scanned the horizon for snow but the ground was barren and brown. We shivered while my uncle turned up the heat. My mother cried.
At the time, I didn't realize what was going through my parents' minds. They had just left their parents and friends and jobs and home and lush, tropical vegetation behind for this new desolate tundra and were wondering if they had made the worst decision of their lives.
On my first day of elementary school, the six-foot-tall white teacher mispronounced my name as he introduced me to the class. "She-car," he said. I didn't have the courage to correct him and the mispronunciation stuck with me through elementary school and junior high, where my name was mocked. I was also spat upon and punched because of the colour of my skin and my name.
I largely ignored the racist stuff and still have a tough time admitting to myself that I'd been put in a headlock by a boy who'd failed the seventh grade and who thought it was funny to wrap my head up with a roll of masking tape to make it look like a turban.
Another boy drew crude pictures of me as a starving Third World child in tattered rags with a swollen belly, flies buzzing around the head, and "Paki" written on top.
The drawing was circulated to other boys in the school. I tried pointing out that I was from India, not Pakistan – that they were two different countries that had been at war with each other numerous times. But, to the boy and his friends it didn't matter.
When the boys snickered, my name certainly didn't make me feel as though I were at the top of a mountain or the crest of a wave.
But I was desperate to fit in, and conceding one's vulnerability is not an option for young men, so I ignored the bullies. In high school, life got better. Puberty made me less of a nerd and my friends called me "Shake" or "Shaker." By the time I was in university, I'd begun writing my name as Shaker because it proved less problematic, it was easy for people to say and I wanted to make life easier for other people.
Legally, I didn't change my name, but after graduating, I kept using Shaker for everything – phone bills, e-mail addresses. Even the Canada Revenue Agency still knows me as Shaker. It was a way to hide my difference and make it easier for me to blend in.
When I became a professional actor, the name Shaker travelled with me.
At one of my first film auditions, an experienced and successful actor suggested that I anglicize my name even more into "something less ethnic." He was brown-skinned himself, but had a common anglo name.
The self-hating boy in me was tempted, but I resisted. I told him that legally my name was Shekhar, but that the only time I ever used it was at airports when I had to fly anywhere with my passport (where both he and I were often randomly searched).
I pointed out that many names such as Sean and Ciaran and Siobhan are not spelled the way they sound.
"Yeah, but that's different," he replied. What he didn't say, but was implied, was that those were white names.
He had grown up with the same pressure to conform to the dominant culture while having his own culture disgraced. I realized that while I hadn't adopted an anglo name to fit in, I had whitewashed my name nonetheless.
Now, as my daughter, who is brown-skinned and of mixed race, grows up and is beginning to note the differences in skin colour, I want her to have a healthy relationship with her "ethnic" name.
So, if you please, my name is Shekhar, pronounced "SHAY-kher." Don't worry if you mispronounce it, I will correct you.
I'm glad my parents made the decision to come to Canada. Like many immigrants, the sacrifices my parents made should be valued and celebrated and so too should the name they chose to call me.
It's taken me a while, but I like my name and am proud of its unique story.
Shekhar Paleja lives in Vancouver.