Why I Became a Therapist - Tanya

by TANYA Abughazaleh

Abughazaleh…. A.Boo. Guh. Zaul. Ay.

When I was  4, my mom sat me down on consecutive afternoons and taught me to spell my name so that I’d be ready for preschool. It took me some time because there were 22 letters in my entire name, and 11 in my last name alone. Little did I know at the time that my last name, Abughazaleh, would be something that everyone would struggle pronouncing. I attended a school that was primarily Filipino and Hispanic, which meant there weren't many of my kind - me being half-Vietnamese and half-Middle Eastern. There was one other student who was fully Middle Eastern and one who was Vietnamese, but neither were bi-racial like me. I noticed right away how uneasy it made others feel when they saw my last name. Their faces appeared puzzled and their eyebrows furrowed as they practiced saying it in their head in the hopes they wouldn’t butcher it out loud. It was all in vain - they never once got it right. I felt shame and embarrassment at the time for being different. My last name reflected this fact, and the only way I could change it was when I got married. To top it off, the shortened version wasn’t all that pretty either - as “Abu” made me think of the monkey in Aladdin.

My fourth-grade teacher asked me to provide her with a hyphenated version of my last name for an award ceremony taking place in front of the entire school. This request would have been reasonable had it been the first week of school, but it occurred at the end of the year, meaning my teacher had had all year with me as her student to practice my last name yet still couldn’t do it. I practiced it with her before the ceremony- even writing  “Uh-boo-guh-zaul-ay” in big, bold letters on a white 8x11 sheet of paper that she could bring with her to the auditorium. The ceremony started and it was in alphabetical order, so I was the first to be called. As I waited in anxious anticipation for my award, my teacher stepped to the podium and announced, “Please applaud these students for maintaining a 3.4 GPA, Tanya Abooguh, booguh.” My face became flush and all I could hear were my classmates next me laughing uncontrollably. I sat frozen for the longest minute of my life until one of  my classmates nudged me to go up on stage and get my certificate. If that was not enough humiliation, I had to endure winning another award, this time for perfect attendance, in which my teacher again referred to me as “Tanya Abooguh, booguh.” I clenched my jaw for the remainder of the ceremony until we walked back to our classroom. I ripped the certificates in half and threw them in the trash. 

In high school I figured out a way to avoid being made fun of - I attended an all-girls school where the population was more diverse, but when it came to joining and doing anything coed with our brother school, the same fears arose. To counteract the embarrassment and possible jokes that were soon to follow, I made sure I was well-liked. I made sure I created connections and meaningful relationships with my classmates of both genders. It was not until senior year when I was nominated for homecoming princess when I was again put to the test. I had to create a campaigning video to support my nomination that would be screened for the upperclassman. I decided to be proactive and give the audience something to laugh about other than my last name. The video was of me dramatically re-enacting different personas with outfits and accessories to make it as silly as possible. In one shot, I wrote obnoxious words on my arm to resemble tattoos, wore a highlighter green Von Dutch hat and a white-beater, shamelessly asking for their vote. In another shot, I dressed up as a football player with face paint. In the last shot, I wore my hair in two pigtails that were uneven bows in different colors, spoke like a “valley girl,” and led with a rap song I made up with a similar melody to a popular song at the time. I mixed everything together wearing random accessories that made no sense - a clear reflection of how I felt about my identity at that time. In my own narrative, it was ok that my audience laughed at my video because I was intentionally giving them something to laugh at versus rather than them teasing me about my last name. At least they weren’t laughing at me. It was only after the video was shown and when the male students were expected to put in their vote that the jokes arose again. They made small remarks like “which is the girl with the weird, long last name?” or “Did you vote for the Abu girl?”. I played it off as if it didn’t phase me at all. I laughed at myself and went along with the joke though I still felt some of the same shame and embarrassment as before. 

It wasn’t until I entered college that things started to change. My Freshman year roommate had a last name that resembled mine. They were so similar that she beat me in taking the first place when we were called in alphabetical order. I was finally second! In the dorms, I had to constantly introduce myself to new people, saying my entire name out loud but with some hesitation, as I was preparing for people to chuckle after hearing it. During an on-campus dorm kick-back, I introduced myself to someone new and she commented on how cool and original it was to have a last name like mine. She even said, “I wish I had a cool last name like yours.” It was the first time in 18 years of my life that my last name and the word “cool” were put in the same sentence. This led me to reflect on how I perceived my last name. I took on a new approach the remainder of the week and made sure I didn’t hesitate right before announcing my last name. I’d introduce myself without wavering and without giving into fear.  By the end of the week, I realized no one aside from myself reacted when I introduced my last name. No one chuckled or made rude comments. They reacted as if it was just a typical last name. Unknowingly, I was engaging in repetitive exposure therapy everyday. I was moving towards situations that made me uncomfortable, and I ran with it. In every setting then on, I found that if I was proud and introduced myself with confidence that no one could take that away from me. 

I finally began to embrace my name and the cultures it came from. Having understood what it felt like to be on the outside, I also developed concern for others in the same position. I was definitely the student that would talk to the new kid in class or the person who would go out their way to make a stranger feel comfortable because no one was talking to them. I believe these past experiences laid one of the most important blocks in the foundation of my being a therapist - empathy. Hearing stories of kids and teens today going through similar experiences, or of adults who went through experiences growing up, crushes my soul. I want to fight for these people and give them the support and understanding that I wish I had growing up. I realize now that it wasn’t my last name that I was ashamed of, but of myself. I believe my journey has taught me how to take pride in who I am and that my “different” qualities were something to be valued. My experiences allowed me to truly embrace my true identity, something that I find so impactful when struggling with anxiety or one’s own insecurities. Ultimately, my experiences created the space for me to help my patients be courageous and take pride in what makes them so unique.