MELVIN DURAI'S AMUZING LIFE
IMMIGRANTS' NAMES ARE OFTEN MANGLED

     At times, I wonder why my parents named me Melvin. As East Indians, they had thousands of great names to choose from, names that would reflect our heritage and culture, names that would make most Americans stammer.

     They picked two syllables when they could have easily picked 15. They picked Melvin instead of something like Melvinathamanayagam. They picked a name that would actually fit on a driver's license.

     In their infinite wisdom, they gave me a name that's both English and old-fashioned. The only Melvins I've ever met are in their 80s and, if they think really hard, can still remember the days when politicians were honest.

     Melvin is in the same category as Horace, Myron and Elmer. You'll never hear those names on "Beverly Hills 90210." Unless the characters are studying history.

     But every now and then, I'm thankful my parents gave me a first name that's easy to spell and pronounce. People have enough trouble with my last name, Durai (pronounced Do-rye). Some pronounce it Durea, as though it rhymes with urea. Others think it's French and spell it Du Ray. And a few think it reflects my humor and spell it Dry.

     Of course, I shouldn't complain. Many immigrants have it worse. They have names like Kadambavanam, Constantinopolous and Majchrzak. Every time someone says their names, it's a new pronunciation. Their names have been destroyed so many times, they ought to qualify for federal aid.

     Many of these people like having names that honor their heritage. But they feel pressured to adopt shorter Americanized names. A first name like Jayakumar easily becomes Jay, Suchitra becomes Sue, and Dudekanandi becomes ... uh ... Dude.

     One banker I know was told to Americanize his name or lose a chance for a promotion. He did. I'm sure his shorter name fits easily on that bigger paycheck.

     Years ago, my late father changed the pronunciation of our last name. It used to be pronounced Dthoray, but Dad decided to give people a break. He was a kind man.

     I have a friend from Zambia whose last name is Kwamanakweenda. His son was born in America, but -- unless he shortens his name -- he has no chance of ever being elected president. Americans would never go for President Kwamanakweenda. All the headline writers would go on strike. They'd run out of space just writing his name. They'd never be able to write: "Kwamanakweenda Admits Relationship With Intern."

     Of course, it would be terrible to overlook a great leader just because of his name. And it's terrible to overlook a good worker just because of his name. Not everyone can be named Smith, Jones or Lewinsky.

     Many African-Americans are giving their children African names, celebrating their roots. Some people may have trouble with those names, but at least the children will grow up knowing their heritage.

     In a multicultural society like ours, perhaps more Americans should take the time to learn people's full names -- not just the first syllable. Perhaps we need professional coaches to teach people how to pronounce ethnic names: "OK, folks. Relax and don't panic. Just take it one syllable at a time. And don't forget to take a deep breath -- you won't get another for a long time."