PicoBlog

All of my college syllabus weeks had variants of the same scene. The professor squinted at the attendance roster. “Por Ja—” They moved closer to the screen or paper. “Jay… Jaijongkit. Did I say that right?” I’ve always said yes. The difference between “Jay” and “Jai” didn’t bother me. I have always been grateful that my Thai surname comprised of sounds that existed in the English language and had only three syllables. There were plenty surnames that were more of a mouthful, such as “Virattayanon” or “Mahadrumrongkul.” I had no intention of putting my professor on the spot on the first day of class. 

I have my late grandfather to thank for that. When he and my grandmother moved to Bangkok and registration was abound, he came up with the name “Jaijongkit,” roughly translated to “dedicated heart.” In Thailand, no one is allowed to possess the same last name unless the members under that name are related by blood. This rule ensures that there is only one Jaijongkit family. I take pride in possessing such an exclusive name.  

My grandfather was also the one who came up with my legal first name, Panisara. The name was derived from Sanskrit, supposedly meaning “creator of her own life.” While my grandfather offered other options, my dad claimed that they sounded so horrible that they have been completely blocked from memory. My mother told me that the family went to a clairvoyant before I was named, as superstitious Thais tend to do. The clairvoyant declared that she would have a daughter with an independent spirit. When my mom insisted on “Panisara” the clairvoyant told her to be wary. “You will have very little authority over how your daughter lives her life.” It gave her eighteen years to brace for me going abroad, potentially permanently.  

No matter where I go, the nickname I carry, Por, comes from my mother. Thais are notorious for having nicknames that have nothing to do with their legal name, given on the basis of having a catchy label. My mom’s nickname is Noi, meaning “little.” Some nicknames are short English words, such as Ice and Mint. Some are stranger. I have a nephew named Bonchon after the Korean fried chicken restaurant chain. “Por” is derived from the Thai word for dragonfly, “malangpor.” My parents originally wanted two children, a son and a daughter. They thought of a cute Thai phrase, “Malangpor koh ton palm,” which translates to dragonfly on a palm tree. The idea was to name the daughter Por and the son Palm. My mother’s first child was a miscarriage, and though the baby was lost before the gender could be identified, she likes to think of the child as a son. My parents made one exception to the Por rule: they would name the daughter Opal (which still includes “Por” in the Thai pronunciation) if she was born in October. My birthday fell on September 30th. In the end, my family got their dragonfly but not their palm tree.

I find sheer delight in the amount of English puns that can be made with my name. An icebreaker activity I sometimes do when I try to make new friends is to ask them to come up with a “Por Pun.” It can be an important component of early bonding, as the activity attracts those who enjoy cracking a pun or two. A fun nickname my closest friends have for me is “Pot,” which is often my name morphed by mobile autocorrect. One of my favorite college moments was when my friends and I were doing dishes and it was lost in conversation was “pot” referring to me or the container being washed. 

Still, I sometimes think what my life would be like if I was named Opal, or if I had gone with my Kindergarten impulse to rename myself Belle after watching Beauty and the Beast. Would I have to not repeat myself as much when I introduced myself? Could I get away with not having to spell my name every time I verbally introduced myself (“Hi I’m Por.” “What?” “Por. Like P-O-R.”). The longer I have stayed in the States, the more self-conscious I am of my name. An exhaustion has been creeping in. My ears are tuned for “Por” and anything that sounds similar. I keep turning whenever someone says “poor” or “pour”, or even “for.” I’ve spun around to “por favor.” I’ve even mistaken “Paul” for my own name a few times and have spoken over a poor Paul during attendance.

Then there are times where I think my name is too awkward. My name isn’t pretty enough. It isn’t romantic enough. The shortness of my name from a partner’s lips surprised me. It felt so short. How much emotion could be packed in three letters? I’ve always known I was a hopeless romantic, but I never before thought that I didn’t have a romantic name. Could my own name cause a record scratch across an intimate moment? 

“Why don’t you go by Panisara?” My roommate posed the question while we were stuck in traffic. I had never considered it. I said it was too long. She counted the syllables on her hand. “Panisara is four syllables. So is Veronica. Elizabeth, too. Though, it’ll be hard for me to call you anything other than Por.” That was fair. When an identity is established it is hard to unroot. I couldn’t go around telling everyone I’ve met in college that I wanted to change what I was called. I wasn’t used to the idea myself. A part of me was terrified I wouldn’t recognize my own name when someone said it. I wanted the easy name, the effortlessly memorized name. At the same time, Panisara might capture me more than Por could. 

I tried the Panisara Thing after college. I signed off emails as “Panisara” and asked my professors to refer to me as Panisara for my graduate school recommendation letters. Even on my first Politically Invisible Asians piece, I tried to publish as Panisara Jaijongkit, but my unfamiliarity with Substack led me to remain “Por Jaijongkit” as that first piece went online, so I continued using my nickname. I couldn’t even bring myself to remove that “(Por)” off my resume. An employer asked which I preferred, and I said “Por.” 

In the end, “Panisara” was a legal name and a conversation topic, not much else. It may sound “prettier” and maybe one day, as I grow older, I’ll adopt the name to reflect my age. But for now, “Panisara” was what was on my passport and apartment lease. “Por” is the name that wears her sense of humor on her sleeve when meeting new people, the ear that listens to friends and family, and the little signature hanging beneath the subtitle of these writings. Do I want “Por” on the cover of the novels I’m planning to publish? That’s an identity crisis for another day.

Demystifying Thai Names

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