WHAT'S IN A NAME?

The first day of school was always the worst. When I walked into the classroom, I’d wipe my sweaty palms against my black jeans. I’d lower my head in shame and hope that the earth would break open only to swallow me up. Then, I’d anxiously fidget, hoping to get through attendance.

“Edward Pan?” The teacher would ask, her eyes searching the sea of students.

“Here,” he would answer. Then his eyes would dart towards me, a sneer on his lips. We were all familiar with this routine—that is, everyone except the teacher.

“Hmm…” The teacher would pause in hesitation. “Saigo…”

“Here,” I’d say quickly, “I’m here.” My peers would laugh and point at me cruelly. “You can call me ‘Sai.’” When Edward turned toward me, I’d shrink in my seat with embarrassment.

My name is Saigopini Angela Panneerselvam. When I was growing up here in the states, I was called many things. Some on accident, like ‘Saigopenny.’ And some on purpose, like ‘Saigone-to-pee,’ or my personal favorite, ‘Saigo-penis.’ Kids are cruel, especially the Indian ones I grew up with. I thought I could turn to them for comfort, but I was wrong. Thanks, Aadi Chowdry. I’d feign apathy and pretend that I was above their taunting, but secretly it hurt. It hurt being teased for my name—an aspect of myself I didn’t have control over. A name I never wanted.

“Appa, why did you name me this?” I cried to my dad one day after he picked me up from the after-school daycare. “Why did you name me Saigopini when my sister is named Priya?”

Priya. Such an easy name to pronounce. Yes, people occasionally butchered it, but it was well-known from The Big Bang Theory and the beauty Indian queen, Priyanka Chopra. Yes, people may have called her ‘Prya,’ but it was nothing like ‘Saigoes-to-pee.’ Throughout the years, many teachers would look at me with pity—as if my immigrant parents from India didn’t know any better—but they did. They gave my sister a perfectly reasonable name, but I was stuck with ‘Saigopini’—a name that many other Indian people had no idea how to pronounce.

“Kanna, your name is very special. No one in the world has a name like yours because I created it.” Appa said gently in Tamil. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than ever before. I felt terrible complaining to my father when the weight of raising two girls all on his own rested on his shoulders. “Do you know the story of your name?” He asked.

“No,” I bit my lip with hesitation. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“When you were growing in your mother’s stomach, we were so happy.”

“Yes, back in Canada,” I sighed. Sometimes I forgot that my family had an entire life before I came around.

“Yes, Priya was six, and I was studying. We were excited to have another child and to complete our family.” He smiled at me. Priya had told me before that there was another child—one before me who passed a few days after she was born. My family was heartbroken, but a few years later, when my mother went to the doctor’s, she found out two things: one—that she was pregnant with me, their rainbow baby, and two—that she had ovarian cancer at the age of 29.

“We found out your mom was sick. Very sick. And we were in a country with no family or support—everyone was back in India.”

My father was the first person in his village to leave the slum, go to college, and pursue a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. I may have grown up with a computer, but he didn’t even have electricity or running water. He was completing his Ph.D. in Canada when my grandfather arranged Appa’s marriage to my mother. Amma was the only woman in her family to go to college and even get her master’s. She left everything—everyone she knew—the day after she got married to venture to a new country, accompanying my father.

“My father, your Thatha, loved your mother like his own daughter, and when he found out she was sick, his heart literally broke. He passed away a few hours later. And his name was Gopal. In our tradition, we name our children after those who have passed. And so to honor him, we knew we wanted to name you after him.”

The female version of Gopal is Gopika or Gopi. “We follow the guru, Sai Baba, so we wanted to name you after him as well. The name Saigopi just didn’t have the right ring to it,” Appa cooed as he stroked my straight, thick hair.

Many years later, my mother’s friends would tell me how frightened they were. No one thought that either of us would make it. My mother’s cancer progressed while she was pregnant. When my mother went into labor, there were so many prayers—prayers for both of our survival. And on April 24th, at 4:24 AM, I was born, and my mother survived. My father looked over at my mother—she was exhausted—and he took her hand. “What if we named our baby ‘Saigopini’? The ‘ni’ from your name—Nirmala.”

I don’t know what she said that day because I could never ask her, but I imagine her smiling wryly. “I wanted her to be named Aarthi, but Saigopini is beautiful too.”

The name I had despised—the name I hated—is one I cherish now. ‘Saigopini’ was created by the best person I know, my father. Appa named me to honor three people: the guru we followed, Sai Baba, my grandfather, a rice paddy farmer who sacrificed for his family, and my mother, a strong and inspiring woman. My mother passed away when I was six years old from her battle with ovarian cancer. She was just 36 years old.

So, Aadi and Edward, make fun of me all you want. Come up with clever taunts but know that I don’t care. My name is a gift and a reminder that the ones we love never leave us—that they live in our actions and our hearts.

Sai, short for Saigopini (pronounced like "sigh"), hails from a lineage of resilient women and rice paddy farmers in South India. Despite pursuing a double major in mathematics and computer science at Santa Clara University, Sai's true passion has always been writing and poetry. Her journey as a writer began unexpectedly when a poem she wrote for the Santa Clara Library Young Poets competition, submitted by her high school teacher, earned her a surprise victory. Committed to empowering other women, Sai dedicates much of her time to mentoring young women in STEM fields, driven by her desire to give back to her community. Throughout her diverse career, Sai has worn many hats, from serving as a tour guide at the Monterey Bay Aquarium to exploring roles in archiving, paleontology, and engineering. When Sai is not writing, she’s traveling the world, going on adventures with her dog, staying up at odd hours devouring a good book, and drinking lots of chai. Sai is excited to continue her writing journey and is currently working on her own book, "Shiva's Trident and The Goddess's Fire," which is in the process of traditional publishing. Sai would love to hear from you! To follow her journey, you can connect with her on Instagram, @sai.panneer, or visit her website, saipanneerselvam.com.