“Name?” they ask.

“James,” I reply without hesitation.

I know they won’t butcher it. They won’t make me repeat it twice, and I won’t have to spell it out. James: Anglican, monosyllabic, easy.

My name, Rohan, turns out to be a little complicated — and I vary the pronunciation depending on who I’m talking to. For most Americans, I insist on “ROhan” (rhymes with yawn), like it’s pronounced in Lord of the Rings (which, by the way, came after my name’s conception). To those with English accents, I tell them to say “Rohan” (hard A, rhymes with man), because, well — I don’t know — it just sounds nicer. And then to Indians, I say it like my family does, “Rohun” — the second vowel is uncommon enough in America that it’s best to stay clear of.

Why “James” when asked by the Starbucks cashier? Perhaps it’s my socialist sensibilities — a small act of protest against the corporatist oligarchs that rule our society, and the way that they even dare to ask our first names. Names are power, and once you have a name for something, you can manipulate it with greater fidelity.

I have other names, too. When I lived in Taiwan, I went by Tianlan.¹ Tianlan spoke Mandarin, barely at first, and bumbled around like a buffoon around the streets of Kaohsiung City. Most of the time, Tianlan spent his time ordering mango smoothies or going to Buddhist vegetarian joints. He was illiterate at first, and bumbled into coffee shops as an excuse to practice speaking. On occasion, he would say something mildly intellectual about American vs Taiwanese culture, or bust out a Chinese proverb like, “one must not board the bus without first buying a ticket” (which refers to the act of getting pregnant before you are married).

Over time living in Taiwan, I grew to respect Tianlan more and more. One of my prouder moments — my friend inquired at my Chinese language school, and said, “I know Rohan, do you know him?” My Chinese teachers were baffled — who is Rohan? They knew me as Tianlan, and Tianlan alone.

So put more charitably, “James” is my Starbucks persona. It’s like a nickname; an inside joke that’s only between me and the rotating cast of characters that I see at coffee shops. “James”, he who orders hot chocolate with oat milk, has a life of his own.