It feels a bit odd to be introducing myself for what is essentially a sign-off to high school. I’ve introduced myself many times over the past four years, however, I’m realizing now that, though the people around me know the name “Ashley He,” it’s not the only name I carry. And I don’t want to graduate without at least properly introducing myself once.
My English name is Ashley Jia He, He after my dad, Jia after my mom. Ashley, meaning “spirit of the woods,” at least according to my mom. She said she liked the image of a girl raised from the woods, grown from nature. Unfortunately for her, I did in fact grow up in a lovely but very forestless suburb.
My Chinese name is “贺心然,” read “hèxīnrán.” It means open-hearted, a person who is willing to accept and try new things, a future my mom hoped for me. It’s often odd to me that so many of the people I consider closest don’t know this name, not by any fault of their own but because, growing up, I always treated this name, this identity, as a wholly separate world. There’s “Ashley He,” and then there’s “贺心然.”
I didn’t grow up with a lot of people who looked like me, much less people who spoke or had names like me. I understood that there were many things I wouldn’t be able to understand fully, just as I knew that the same could be said by my peers about me. To give “Ashley” the chance to grow up, “贺心然” took a step back. For so long, I treated my heritage as an ill-fitting puzzle piece, placed off to the side while the rest of the whole came together.
In high school, I felt it important to give every part of me a chance to explore. At the behest of my now longtime friend Krish, I joined AAPI Association in sophomore year. For the first time, the culture I’d only experienced intermittently was being celebrated, in school no less. Now, as co-president, I’m working to keep that safe space alive, building a community of so many great people not separated, but connected by all of our differing cultures.
Accepting yourself isn’t a linear path. I still have questions, moments of doubt. Can I call “贺心然” a writer if I write about inherited pains in a language my grandmother cannot and will never be able to read? Can I call “Ashley” an artist if every time I draw the New Year’s zodiac animal for my mom’s collection, I sign it in Chinese? I’m still playing the balancing game of being grateful for the life I have and wishing that visiting family meant a drive down the road and not a flight across the world.
Slowly, my worlds came closer together than I thought. “Ashley” is co-president of Environmental Club because at eight, “贺心然” watched the pale July Beijing skies and realized that the thick smog had covered the sun all summer. Now, I’m planning to study environmental science in college, trying to help this one world we all share.
Reflecting on high school, I think I’m very lucky. I’ve had fantastic teachers who believed in me, who taught me about urban heat sinks, Seamus Heaney’s poetry, and Oliver Tambo, but also supported me in exploring my own interests. I’ve made friends who make me feel heard, who trade my stories for their own.
To anyone who feels a little out of place and is wondering if you’ll ever find somewhere to belong, you will. Rather, I have no doubt that there is never just one place where a person fits in; we aren’t puzzle pieces, we’re people, delightfully flexible and malleable in nature. Never feel like you have to make yourself smaller to fit into a space that wasn’t made to fit you and all of the growing you’re meant to do.
In the future, I don’t know who I’ll be. I’m sure I’ll try new things, take interesting classes, and go on long walks when I miss my dog too much. I’m sure I’ll meet plenty of new people, each a story waiting to be heard. And when I do, I’ll be sure to introduce myself.
