What's in a name?

Aww, how's Osama?" I asked, leaning back into a comfy cushion in the living room. \nA hush fell over the room as everyone's eyes turned toward me in confusion. As an awkward silence filled the air, I realized I should have known.\nSome names are simply taboo. \nTo mention Osama's name simultaneously implies an evil intent to hearken terrorists, summon demons, dismantle civilization and regress to a turban-filled dynasty of fundamentalism and militant gun-toting, sand-skinned A-Rabs.\n"Oh, he's good, so cute," my roommate responded, referring to her eight-year-old brother. \nA sigh of relief and nervous laughter erupted.\nAah, my faux pas concealed by a merciful interjection. \nThough I escaped from this name blunder with few social repercussions, I faced a mind-boggling personal concern: what does a name really mean?\nA similar scene happened again in my house. I'd heard a lot about Omar Ghadaffi, but couldn't match the Libyan leader's name with a face.\n"Who is he?" I asked one evening.\n"He's my uncle," answered one of my roommates with an air of nonchalance.\nI tried to stifle my giggles, but they bubbled out uncontrollably.\nMy roommate's affiliation with terrorist names might seem absurd, coincidental or just random. \nBut long before Osama's name became a household terror alert, little boys in the Arab world cherished the name. In an attempt to put a face on the ambiguity of a "War against Terror," we've slandered the name and inadvertently a culture. We've forever quarantined certain names, forbidding them from assimilation and leading to tremors of trauma every time someone mentions them.\nA few weeks ago, a host at a Chicago restaurant asked me for my name. And I responded, with the traditional Arabic pronunciation knowing full-well he'd probably reply with "Asthma" or some other obnoxious pseudo-homonym. \nBut, instead, he looked at me with a quizzical smile. "Erma?" he asked. \nI stuttered in confusion. I could never have anticipated that one.\n"Um … sure," I responded with an uneasy smile.\nHow much easier would life be if I had some sort of "American" name?\nI've been toying with the possibility of creating fictional names when I eat out at restaurants. I could imagine the ease of reserving a table for two for "Jenny," "Liz" or better yet, "Lilly" -- I've always had a personal affection for flowery names.\nIn Germany, officials banned the name "Hitler" for fear it would ridicule children. In September 2002, when a Turkish family tried to name its baby Osama bin Laden, the government refused using a similar excuse.\nSixty-eight percent of respondents agreed with Germany, according to a CNN poll.\nBut some, like the National Council for the Social Studies, encourage discussion and promote acceptance.\nIn "My name is Osama," a short story copyrighted by the Council, students learn about name discrimination.\n"It must be tough having a first name like Osama," Mr. Allen says to a 13-year-old Iraqi immigrant boy. "With everything happening in the news, I mean. Osama, my grandfather's last name was not Allen. It was Alfirevich. He changed it to Allen to make it sound more English. More American. But sometimes I think about changing it back." Mr. Allen smiles. "Just to honor my grandfather."\nIn an attempt to simplify my name, segregate myself from my culture, I've underestimated the importance of names. Accustomed to using "Asma" as nothing more than an identifier, I've neglected the potential power of a name.\nAnd despite the temptation of telling people a fake name for the convenience of assimilation, I'd rather be "Asthma" than "Jenny" any day.