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My name is Juviand Eslie Del Rosario Rivera. Juviand is a combination of my parents names: Juvy and Ferdinand. My middle name is a combination of my grandmothers’ names: Esther and Julie. Del Rosario and Rivera have Spanish roots, because during the 1560s Spaniards colonized the Philippines, leaving our food, language, and population forever changed.
Names can carry stories with them. My story starts with my great grandmother, Julieta. Julieta named her daughter Julie. Julie named her daughters Juvy, Jennifer, Jenalin, and Jenet. My mom kept to the “J” tradition, naming me and my sister Juviand and Jenevy. My cousins’ names are Johanna and Jodie.
My paternal grandmother, Esther, rarely calls me by my first name. Instead, she calls me “ining,” which means “little girl” in Tagalog. Because I was the first female in a family of all boys (my dad has 2 brothers), my grandmother treated me like a princess. She spoiled me (and my teeth!) rotten, giving me all the candy and toys my toddler heart could ask for. She and my grandfather happily raised me in the Philippines for my first three years, while my parents were in America working. So for three years of my life, my name was “ining.”
In the beginning, my assimilation to America was a whirlwind of change for both me and my parents.  After the painful realization that my grandma was not my mom and my mom was actually a complete stranger to me; after the many fitful nights demanding to go back to the Philippines, not knowing that it’ll take 10 years before I go back; after the move from an apartment in Chicago, Illinois to an apartment in Staten Island, New York; after the first 7 years of public school and ESL classes, my parents and I finally assimilated into American suburbia.
At the age of eight, my family finally had enough money to send me to a private summer camp. Going to this summer camp was a big deal, because it was actually held at my future Catholic middle school. Considering that I will most likely be in class with some of these “campers” that fall, it was imperative that I fit in. In case you can’t tell, I was pretty self-aware for a 12-year-old. I knew I was going from a culturally diverse public school to a predominantly Irish-Italian Catholic school. I knew that there would be more Emilys than Ebonys and more James’ than Javiers. I was also pretty sick and tired of people pronouncing my name wrong or having a stranger start a conversation with “Oh, Juvi? Like juvenile prison?” So, I decided to totally rewrite my story by naming myself Claire.
Claire lived in America her whole life. Claire never had a hard time making friends because of a language barrier. Claire ate rice, but only when her family went to an Asian restaurant. Claire primarily ate a PB&J or Nutella sandwich for lunch. Claire grew up watching Sesame Street, not Sailor Moon. Simply put, Claire was—for the most part—not who I was. Claire was the image that would help me fit in. At the beginning, Juviand wasn’t.
Looking back, I had a wonderful summer, but it wasn’t because I changed my name. People didn’t like me because my name was “normal,” they liked me because I was a cool kid who loved to climb the monkey bars, trade snacks, and play Marco-Polo. They liked me because I was the girl you went to if the jump ropes got tangled and who would go up to random campers during pool time, sucking in her breath and saying, “Hey look at my ribs!”         Â
Despite my different skin, eyes and background, I was just like them: a kid having fun at summer camp. No one really cared what my name was, which is lucky because when I went to class that fall, I decided to switch my name back to Juvi and the students I went to camp with didn’t raise many questions. They just continued to accept and like me, just the same.
Rare photo of me in middle school.
After leaving my Catholic middle school, I went to a public high school that promoted and celebrated cultural diversity. There, my differences became my best asset. I made friends who were interested in where I come from, how we’re different and how we’re also the same. I love that I can bring my friends to Filipino restaurants and have it be a totally new experience for them. I’m proud of being an American immigrant because I have this strong connection to one culture while also living in a place that is home to many others.
At my high school’s multicultural showcase. My partner and I are wearing traditional Filipino clothing.
A name is easy to change, but the story behind it lasts forever. Claire tells a story of a girl who was scared of being different, later realizing that she’s not all that different from anyone else who climbed the monkey bars. The things that did make her different also made her great. I will never forget my ties with Claire, and some day, I’ll tell my sister, Jenevy Claire Rivera, why her name is significant.
I’m proud of my name because it carries stories that define who I am. It is my connection to my family, my past and my country. It took me a while to embrace what makes me different, but in a world that’s filled with Julies, Julias, and Judys I am proud to be the only Juvi.
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Image credits: Juviand Rivera, Circleyoga.com