[My] Persian Name Problems

Today’s post is more of a personal essay. It’s something I’ve written some form of in my newsletter and on Instagram, but I decided to gather all these thoughts dancing around in my head in one post and share them with you. And even though it’s about my personal experiences, I have a feeling that the overall issue is something that many of you, Iranian or not, will be able to relate to. And if so, please do share your experiences below- especially if you happen to be another Pontia/Pantea out there! 🙂

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My name is Pontia

Some of you know me personally, some of you I’ve met in Tehran (which is always cool), but to most of you, I’m just a name. And an unusual one at that. One that you’re probably not too sure how to pronounce (unless maybe you’ve read my About page, but even then…). How the heck do you say Pontia? I know what you’re thinking- it looks like “Pontiac” without the “c”. So is it Pon-tee-uh? Actually, it’s two syllables and a silent “i”: Pon (like “ponder”) tuh (like “tummy”). Pon-tuh (using the Americanized pronunciation, anyway). Pontia.

On how I got my name

My parents named my siblings and me names that start with a ‘P’. Why? Because in the West, Iranians are always mistaken for being Arab. My parents figured that if their children had names that started with a P, no one would make such a mistake because- HELLO!- the Arabic alphabet doesn’t have a P! So obviously we weren’t Arab. It was the perfect plan! Except what my parents didn’t realize was that this fun fact was only obvious to Iranians. For Westerns, Iranian and Arab was like, eh, potato, potah-to.

On pronunciation

All my life, whether in school or at work, I always knew when someone wanted to say my name because there was an exaggerated pause followed by a, “Huh, I’m not sure how to say this.” In Alabama, the name Pontia was “interesting” (which was the polite, “southern hospitality way”- if you will- to say “strange” or “odd”). They’d mumble some form of my name before quickly moving on. 

You can imagine that in a place like Alabama, my friends’ names were much different. They had names like Laura, Anna, Jenni, and Mary Margaret. And no one ever messed those up. The most they ever had to deal with was something like “It’s Jenni with an ‘i’.” They were lucky. My name, on the other hand, required some heavy explanation.

And that would usually exhaust me enough to never want to explain my name again. Which is probably why I let my 7th grade science teacher call me Portia for an entire school year.

On why I never opted for an American name

To prevent such problems, many Iranians around me had adopted American names. Pedram became Peter. Farnaz became Janelle. Mehran became Mark. Farid became Fred. 

That was great for them, and they probably had a much easier time fitting in. I never considered changing my name, though. One reason was that I guess I never fully realized that this was a viable option. 

Then again, it could have been this deceptively minor yet significant event that happened at an early age:  

In the third grade, we had a class assembly with a Native American man as our guest. After the presentation, the students went to introduce themselves and talk to him. He asked everyone’s names, and when he got to me, I thought, “Here we go.” 

I wish I could remember more about this gentleman, but I only have a dream-like memory of him. But the fact that he was the first person to ever validate my name is absolutely tattooed in my mind. He took interest in it, he repeated it, he asked about the origin and meaning. But most importantly, he said it was “absolutely beautiful.” No one had ever said that to me before. And for all of that, I’d like to take a minute here to thank this kind stranger who will never know just how much his kind words meant to me.

On problems in Iran

My name made introductions in the US more challenging than the average American’s, but I figured that I’d at least have some reprieve during the summers I spent in Iran in my mom’s small hometown of Neyshabur in northeast Iran. Like Cheers, I thought, this was a place where everybody knows my name. For once, I’ll get to feel normal like Jenni, Mary Margaret, and Anna. When they ask my name, I’d proudly say “Pontia” and fit in right alongside Sanaz, Reyhaneh, and Niloofar. 

Until I realized there were problems there, too. 

And it all started when my cousin took me to her English class, excited to show off her American cousin to her classmates. In class, she raised her hand to tell her teacher, Mr. Sakaki, that I was her American relative and asked if I could stay as a guest that day. 

“You’re American!” he exclaimed. “Why don’t you come to the front and speak for us a little. It’s not every day we get to hear a native English speaker.” I reluctantly went to the front of the class and answered his questions.

“What’s your name?”

“Pontia.” I said confidently, knowing that I was in Iran, and everyone would get it. 

“And how long have you lived in the US?”

“I was born there.”

“Excellent! And which do you like more, the US or Iran?” He asked the question that Iranians loved to ask more than any other. Loyal to both sides and not wanting to offend anyone, I gave the most diplomatic answer I could think of at the age of eight (which was also the truth- at the time, anyway). 

“Well, I like Iran, but I prefer living in the US.” 

As I walked back to my chair, I passed the other girls who were staring at me and giggling. They approached me after class. “So you are from the US. What did you say your name was?” 

“Pontia.” 

“What kind of name is that!? Is it Iranian?”

“Yes,” I answered, uncertain as to why they would ask such a question.

“No, it’s not! Who’s ever heard of Pontia!? Is one of your parents American?”

“No, they’re both Iranian,” I said completely confused as to how they had never heard my name before. 

I was shattered. It was one thing for my name to be unusual in the US, but how could it be strange in its native land? But it wasn’t just the girls in my cousin’s class who had never heard my name before. As an adult, I found out that Maman Bozorg (my [maternal] grandmother) thought it was foreign, too. Apparently, when I was born, she told her friends and other family members, “They’re naming her Pontia. Khârejiye.” (It’s foreign.)

I supposed my name is not all that common in Iran, and I’ve found Iranians belong to one of two categories: those who have never heard of Pontia and those who have. A few Snapp drivers here in Tehran have asked me if it’s Armenian. And one particularly cheeky driver started up with me as soon as I sat in his car. “You’re name is Pontia?” Yes. “What do they call you at home? I mean that’s just too hard. You have a ‘Pon’, a ‘teh,’ and then a ‘Ahh.’ It takes forever to say.” Haha, well some people call me Pâni. (In middle school and high school, some called me Pont.) “Pâni. That’s much easier.” When I arrived at my destination, he gave me a hearty, “Khodâ hâfez PÂN-TEH-ÂÂÂÂ,” and made a hand gesture like he was Christina Aguilera belting out a high note. 

On spelling

And that brings us to the issue of spelling. Usually, if someone doesn’t understand something verbally, they ask how it’s spelled, right? And that should [hopefully] fix the problem. Not so much in my case. In fact, spelling just causes more problems. In Spain, when I introduced myself as Pontia the reply was always, “Fanta? Como la bebida?” (Fanta? Like the drink?) No, no. Pontia, with a ‘P.’ Then they’d ask me to spell it. “Ahhhh, Pon-tee-yah!” Sure, why not. 

In Greece, they raised a not-so-subtle eyebrow when they saw my name. 

And in Iran, I got a hard time, too. “P-o-n-t-i-a is wrong. You should spell it P-a-n-t-e-a. That’s the correct way.” I couldn’t get on board with this logic considering you were writing something phonetically from a completely unrelated script which meant that it could be spelled any which way, and no one way was absolutely correct, perhaps just more common. Also, I tried to explain that an American reading “Pantea” would pronounce the first syllable “pan” (like frying pan). And God forbid they pronounce “tea” like the drink! That just ain’t right, folks. 

Much to my chagrin, I noticed that even the Persian spelling gets butchered. For the record, the correct spelling is  پانته آ . One of my cousins noted how unusual (and cool) it was that it has an alef “with the hat on it” at the end (because that letter usually comes at the beginning of a word). A co-worker of mine spelled it the way she said it, پانتا. Countless others spell it based on the English spelling so that it looks like پونتیا. And judging from this, I can only conclude that they don’t know the Persian. Or maybe they don’t recognize that Pontia is actually Pantea. The funny thing is, on two or three occasions, it has actually been a khâreji who has asked, “Pontia. Do you mean like Pantea?” And to them, I tip my tiny virtual hat. 

What I find most hilarious and incredibly cute, though, is when Iranians spell it “Pante A”. That’s right- replete with a space and a capital A to correspond with the Persian alef “with the hat on it”. My name is written as such on my ATM card, and you better believe that when it expires, I will frame that sucker and hang it on my wall. 

On meaning

And I guess all of this brings us to the meaning of Pontia, last but certainly not least. Iranians for whom Pontia is no strange name gasp when they hear it. “Pontia! You know what your name means, right?” Indeed, I do.

As a former contributor to Culture Trip, I was commissioned to write an article on the most beautiful Persian names. In a blatant act of self love (yes, let’s call it that), I included my own on the list. Not necessarily because I think it’s the most beautiful (although I do love the uniqueness of it, even in Iran), but I guess it was more about validating my own name and perhaps unconsciously trying to make it more visible to the world… even if I did spell it Pantea… *sigh*. 

So what does it mean? Here’s the tragic story I’ve read and been told (although I half expect an Iranian to comment on how I got it all wrong…): 

In Persian folklore, Pantea was supposedly the most beautiful woman in Asia. So beautiful, in fact, that she kept her face covered to prevent men from falling in love with her. Her husband, the king of Susa, fought against Cyrus the Great. After Pantea was captured by Cyrus’ army, she was brought to serve as his possession. However, Cyrus had heard of her beauty and because he knew she was married, he refused to look at her for fear that he would also fall in love. Because Pantea was treated honorably, she was able to persuade her husband to side with the Persians. After he was killed in battle, Cyrus relayed the news to a devastated Pantea, who later committed suicide. Cyrus buried her next to her husband.

You can read about the meaning of Pontia/Pantea and the other Persian names that I chose for the article here. 

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