The Long Road Back to My Own Name
My full name’s Savanrith Kong. Most folks don’t even know what my “official” name is.
My folks said Savan means gold. I don’t know if that’s exactly right in language terms — never cared much. All that counted was them believing it, so they used it when naming each of their four kids back in Cambodia. Every one of us started the same way, carrying a piece of home in the opening beat of our names.
Savannara
Savannavy
Savannavin
And me, Savanrith
When we moved to America, those names were the only bit of home that stayed unchanged. Because they tied us together in places where nothing else seemed right. Yet beyond our house, these names turned into walls instead. Since teachers would stop mid-roll call. Kids wanted us to say it again. Grown-ups gave a small smile but picked a simpler way instead.
Back then, as a kid who’d fled home, I kept trying to fit into a land unsure about folks like me. Getting people to say my name right turned into yet another wall. It wasn’t just one problem — three different struggles piled up.
First, getting people to remember it.
Second, getting them to pronounce it.
Third, getting them to understand who I was beyond the foreignness of the word itself.
Even small moments reinforced the feeling of being outside the frame.
I recall being in souvenir stores when I was little, eyeing rows of trinkets — keyrings, tags, mugs — with names stamped across. Names like Jason, Emily, Daniel, Lisa. So many choices. Each visit, I’d hunt for mine. It was never there. After a while, I just gave up. That moment taught me something soft but heavy — the world doesn’t always make space for who you are.
That’s why I went with Savan instead.
A smart choice. Or maybe a way to stay relevant.
Not because I wanted to, but because it felt like the only way to step into a room without immediately needing to explain myself.
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My siblings made their own adaptations.
My brother became Sam.
My older sister became Amy.
My middle sister adjusted hers to Sovannavy.
Every shift felt like quietly adjusting to things around me, sort of smoothing out rough edges, almost blending in without trying too hard.
Little by little, things just started feeling regular. They slipped into who we are without noise — so soft, most times we didn’t notice what shifted or went missing. Still, hints popped up now and then, quiet-like. Folks I’ve known ages? They still say Savan wrong once in a while. Then catch it. Fix it. Sometimes they just miss it. Other times I ignore it, since correcting things takes more energy than what went wrong.
The change started once I had kids.
Out of nowhere, identity stopped being only about me — it became a starting point for those coming after. So that my kids would understand themselves, I began digging into roots. Not just names or dates, but real connections — to let them see who they’re tied to. My hope? Their past wouldn’t weigh them down, but give them room to stretch up instead.
To show that, I started getting back pieces of me — pieces I’d cut off just to fit in.
Getting back my real name, Savanrith, took time — some days moved forward, others didn’t. Yet every step felt right, even when things stalled or twisted sideways.
It’s strange to say out loud — it just doesn’t come up. Nobody around me says it now — my coworkers don’t, my buddies don’t, not even relatives at home. Still, taking it back isn’t about being instantly known. It’s tied to respecting what it stands for, the strength built into it, along with the self I’m starting to stop concealing.
Names hold deep personal and social meaning.
Studies keep finding that your name affects how accepted you feel. Experts say names tie people to their roots, yet also become zones of struggle when fitting in is required. Some thinkers insist they guard family history, personal stories, plus deeper significance — especially once other parts of culture fade following a move across borders.
Over years, I changed how I wrote my name just so people wouldn’t struggle with it. Right now, I’m figuring out how to move through it on my own.
A title begins somewhere, like a tale waiting to unfold. It’s the very first present we get. Sometimes that’s the piece of us we finally start to get back.
I’m still moving along this path. Maybe someday, when somebody says Savanrith out loud, it’ll just fit — like how it used to back where my folks raised me.
A name is the first gift we receive.
And sometimes it is the last part of ourselves we learn to reclaim.
I am still on that journey. And maybe one day, hearing someone call me by my full name, Savanrith, will feel as natural in the world as it always did in the home my parents left behind.
