• Man Yee Or Nga Ting — The Story About My Name

    “Your father wanted to name you Man Yee — such an ordinary name,” Ma told me this story so often that I could recite it by heart. She knew too many girls named Man Yee and wanted something more special for me. She once knew a Hong Kong celebrity from a film — or maybe it was a book — named Nga Ting, and that was how I got my name. Since Pa wasn’t there when she gave birth to me, Ma took matters into her own hands and chose it herself.

    In Cantonese, “Nga” is pronounced like “Ya” in Mandarin, so my name in Mandarin became “Ya Ting.” Ma loved explaining the meanings behind it. “You Ya” meant elegant and refined. But spoken in another tone, “Ya” could also mean “tooth” or even “mute,” unable to speak. Chinese was strange that way: a small change in tone could turn one meaning into something entirely different.

    “Ting” appeared in the phrase “Ting Ting Yu Li,” a description of a graceful, slender woman, beautiful like a jade statue. Whenever Ma explained this, I would shrink with embarrassment. Even as a child, I felt burdened by it all. How could I ever live up to a name that sounded so delicate and perfect? And why did it describe me like an ornament meant to be admired? It said nothing about how funny I could be, how quickly my mind worked, or how creative I was.

    Sometimes I worried about what would happen when I grew old. One day, wrinkles would replace smooth skin, and whatever beauty people imagined in my name would disappear. By then, I would no longer resemble any polished jade statue. Those thoughts unsettled me whenever I thought about the meaning of my name.

    I had already become ashamed of it in primary school. More than anything, I wanted a quiet life and a place where I belonged. Why did I have to be so different? My hair was coarse, thick, and black, while my classmates had soft blonde or light brown hair that floated in the wind like silk. My eyes were dark and shaped differently from theirs. On weekends, they went hiking, visited museums, or went to the cinema. My parents were always working at the restaurant, so my weekends looked nothing like theirs.

    And then there was my name. No one pronounced it correctly. I longed for a Dutch name like Janneke, Saskia, or Kelly. Maybe it wasn’t really the name itself I envied, but the life I imagined behind it — a life where belonging came naturally.

  • I had one other Asian classmate in preschool: Chi Kwan. Her surname was written as “Li,” while mine was “Lee.” I hated my own name so much that I even preferred hers. Anything was better, as long as it wasn’t mine.

    Every Monday morning during circle time, the teacher would call out our names for attendance. Whenever she said “Li,” I would raise my hand. The teacher, confused and increasingly irritated, would correct me: that was Chi Kwan’s surname, not mine. Disappointed, I would lower my hand, only to raise it again moments later — reluctantly — when “Lee” was called.

    The teacher thought I was simply being stubborn. Week after week, the same ritual repeated itself. Looking back now, I realise those small moments revealed a much deeper struggle with identity and self-acceptance.

    “Ting Ting, do you want some candy?”
    “Ting Ting, what did you do today?”

    I hated it when my aunt called me Ting Ting. I never dared say so out loud, but inside I was furious. How dare she turn my name into a nickname without asking me first? Even though I disliked my name, I still believed I had the right to decide how people used it. I remember firmly nodding to myself, convinced of that truth. Looking back, I have immense respect for my four-year-old self. She already knew exactly how she wanted to be treated.

    By Year 9, my classmates had invented another nickname: “Nga Tingeling,” after the sound of a tiny bell. Strangely, I didn’t mind that one at all. Someone else was called “Linda Pinda,” another classmate became “Salih Satellite,” and Bastiaan, whose surname was Snoek — meaning pike — was simply called “Snoek!”

    I understood their teasing did not separate me from the group; it included me in it.

    “Yes,” I thought, “call me Nga Tingeling. That’s completely fine.”

    Because it meant I belonged.
    It meant I was one of them.

    And they did, they called me Nga Tingeling.

    — Nga Ting, January 2025 (Personal Project)

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