They asked for my 3-year-old’s opinion: What would I like to be called in this new place? I answered, the story goes, with Connie, after that pretty “ayi,” or auntie, we watched on TV. I already had one, of course - Xiaokang, my Chinese name, given to me by my maternal grandfather, which referred to the Communist Party’s commitment to achieving “a moderately prosperous society.” But in 1990, my parents decided to raise me in the United States, and we all had a chance to choose a new identity. Unlike most people, I was able to pick my own name. No wonder the university email address I’d wanted had been taken.Īll this time, I’d thought the story of my name was special little did I know it was the story of a generation. In my freshman class alone, there was a Connie Zheng, a Connie Guo, a Connie Xu, a few Connie Chengs, and multiple Connie Wangs. I found the girl from the sandwich line - and I also found many, many more. Instead, a girl standing nearby waved in response.Īfterward, I went back to my dorm room and typed “Connie” into the campus Facebook. I swiveled to see who it could be - I didn’t know anyone yet.

While I was standing in line to order a sandwich at the campus cafe, I heard a voice from across the room: “Connie Wang!” Suddenly, I was among a student body that was almost 50 percent Asian. It was on my first day of college at the University of California, Berkeley, when I started to realize there were more of us out there.

And they all looked up