A Name Like Light
by Huina Zheng
Xiangdi took the documents she had prepared — her household registration booklet, her ID card, the application she had drafted herself and a certificate of no criminal record — and slid them into the cold glass slot. The edges of the slot were worn white; who knew how many people had passed household registration booklets, marriage certificates and the like through here? Probably very few had come back and forth three times, as she had, just to change a name. Her fingertips trembled slightly as they withdrew. Her face wore a stubborn, do-or-die resolve.
Across from her sat a young man in a dark navy police uniform with black-rimmed glasses. He lifted his narrow-lidded eyes and glanced at her. The look was cold, as if he were looking at a routine case file. “Are you certain you want to apply for a name change?”
“I am.” Her voice was firm.
“Name changes require approval from the Public Security Bureau. It’s difficult.” He paused, then explained, “Adults have many documents. After a name change, even if it’s only for a given name, all sorts of complications can arise. Not long ago, a woman couldn’t log into the hospital appointment system because of her name change.”
She knew all this. Name changes were usually for minors; very few adults applied. But she had resolved at the age of ten to change her name. Her family name was Chen, and her given name was Xiangdi. Xiang meant “to long for” or “to want,” and di meant “younger brother.” The name carried her parents’ wish for a son.
She hated being mocked by her classmates. “You must really miss your brother at school.” Or: “You want a brother that badly?” She had begged her father back then, but he ignored her, telling her to stop making a fuss or he wouldn’t be so nice. She knew he meant the broom. Once, she took a hit; a red welt appeared on her calf and didn’t fade for three or four days.
But she wasn’t making a fuss. The malice that came with this name had followed her all her life. When she was fifteen and started working at a textile factory in Dongguan, a co-worker had grinned and said, “You must have a brother, right?”
Now she was twenty. She had applied for the first time at eighteen and once every year since. When her first two applications were rejected, she thought about why.
The first time, she had written that too many people shared the same name. She realized this reason was barely defensible. True, many girls she knew had di in their given names, all expressing the same parental wish, but their names were all different: Laidi, Zhaodi, Yingdi, Pandi, Youdi... She could count more than ten. The first character of each given name was different, yet the meaning was the same. Chinese vocabulary was too rich for its own good.
The second time, she had written: “The name is old-fashioned, leading to ridicule from friends and colleagues.” She thought this might earn her some sympathy. But the reason still wasn’t “official” enough. Last night, as she was filling out the application form again, her friend Ruonan blurted out, “Why not just say what you really think?”
She had met Ruonan when she switched to livestreaming at eighteen. Ruonan came from a northern province. Her name meant “like a boy.” After Xiangdi had introduced herself, she bit her lower lip, waiting to see what this tall, beautiful girl in a qipao would say about “Xiangdi.”
Instead, Ruonan took her hand. It was cold, the kind of cold from sitting too long under air conditioning. She gave a small, self-mocking smile. “We’re in the same situation. Where I’m from, family planning was strict. My parents couldn’t use my name to wish for a son, so they hoped I’d be like one.”
Xiangdi’s pen paused on the paper, leaving a small blot of ink. She bit her thumbnail. Then, at the line for the reason, she wrote in bold strokes: “Discrimination.” She pressed hard, the last stroke almost tearing the paper. Yes, that was what the name had brought her.
Once, while scrolling through short videos, a blogger said you could tell someone’s background from their teeth. She froze, thinking: I don’t even need to smile and show my teeth. People can see the preference for sons and the contempt right there in my name. The grievance she had suppressed for years made her nose begin to sting. She had to change her name.
And the name she wanted for herself, unchanged through all three attempts: Qing. The full combination, Chen Qing, would mean “a Chen family member who is clear and sunny.” In her free time, she liked lying on the grass, watching the sunlight fall through the canopy of leaves. Just thinking of the name lifted her spirits.
“Any consequences resulting from the name change will be borne by you personally. The Public Security Bureau assumes no related liability,” the young officer said after confirming her materials were complete.
She nodded.
“If your application is approved, it will take one working day to receive your new household registration booklet.” He never once looked at her. “If there are issues with the documents or if further verification is required, the processing time may be extended. You can check the status through the Yue Shengsheng mini-program or by phone.”
She forced a smile and stood up. She walked out of the hall. Sunlight fell upon her face. This was the future she had chosen for herself. Next time she introduced herself, she would tell them that she liked lying on the grass, watching the light.
When her name change went through, she would bring her eighteen-year old sister, Cidi, to change hers as well. Cidi wanted to become Chen Yin. Yin as in “shade beneath a tree.”
“When you look up at the sunlight,” she said, “I’ll lie in the dappled shade. What a perfect pair of names.”
She loved their new names. She was the light fallen into the human world, and her sister was the shadow beside it.
What beautiful names.
Copyright © 2026 by Huina Zheng
