Personal Reflection
Hank Thomas Guo. If you reverse my first and middle name, add and subtract a few letters, it becomes Tom Hanks, the revered actor of my father’s cinematic dreams. In Chinese, it translates to Guo Han Ke, matching phonetically to its English translation— “Han” of the Han dynasty, “Ke,” a part of Ke Neng, the Chinese characters for possibility. Arranged like a carefully crafted puzzle, the short cluster of syllables, the gentle press of the tongue as you stress the -an-, the jagged breath that forces out the -ke-, my name is a gift from my father: an inside joke waving beyond the thirteen letters scribbled onto my birth certificate.
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From my life before he passed away, I remember my father’s gentle smile, the effortless flow of his khakis and oversized polo as he drifted from home office to tennis court—his simple buzzcut reminiscent of Forrest Gump. And of his few wisdoms I am able to recall, the rest hidden behind the hazy curtain of adolescence, only the discernible message of authenticity arises—the simple lesson of pursuing my passions pieced into my inheritance.
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As it is printed in the byline of each article, stamped onto my newspaper’s editorial board, and signed off on Christmas presents delivered in March, my name is the stark reminder to personalize what I do just as my father did for me. With each article written, social media story published, and subscription delivered, the gentle slip of my single-syllable name is a push to raise my voice when needed, but also to listen to the world around me. Sipping coffee through early morning staff meetings, I remember to consider if my work will hold true to the aspirations ingrained in my name.
Yet the history of my name is not limited to me. I am told that when my sister first heard it, she marched herself to my father demanding for it to be changed to something less rough—something elegant, not torn around the edges with jagged consonants rubbing off the grace of each vowel. But after much consoling, she relented, agreeing that even through its imperfections, the name was fit for the round, pudgy little alien that now joined her household.
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And as a child, I loved these stories, the little hints towards my family’s expectations, but also at their core, the freedom to build on how I want to be perceived—each gap in viewpoint or difference in opinion, an opportunity to construct a piece of myself. Now, I find myself exploring these moments in my suburban world. From stories about our town’s century old football rivalry to considerations of where our education will lead, the angles I sign off each time an article is published look to decipher the bumpy assembly of characters that build my perspective. Sampling the life around me, the distinctness of grassroots organizers, of shopkeepers and parents, I learn from the vibrancy around me. And in writing, I discover that it is not the topic, magnitude, or how many views a story receives that measures its worth, but rather the impression it leaves on me.
The thirteen letters of my name are a gesture to the power words hold. They are a challenge for me to pursue what I lack: to grow into the cracks and crevices of my imagination and connect with the community around me. They are a push to be accountable, to embrace the differences that make us who we are, and to tackle the systemic problems within my school and community. My father is not the shadow of who I am supposed to be. The name he chose is not the mold for my personality, his legacy, not a memory to hide under, but instead the foundation for me to create my own liveliness. Set within the towering silhouettes of my first name, the gentle decline of my middle, and the sweeping slopes of my last, is my puzzle—a piece of empowerment that questions the world I live in.