(bright music)

- 50 years ago, my
parents left India.

They took with them
their combined histories,

cultures, food, and fears.

My father, Ramaiah, was
the first in his family

to leave the small
farming village

where my parents grew up.

My mother, Vimala, was 17
years old when she left home.

And eventually they
moved to Michigan

where my brother
and I were born.

I was born early.

And so I had to stay in a
neonatal ICU for several weeks

after I was born.

Because my arrival was
unexpectedly abrupt,

my parents had not yet
chosen a name for me.

So the nurses called
me Baby Boy Muthyala.

My parents wanted my
grandmother to help

choose a name for me,
but the phone connection

to her small village was poor,

and so we couldn't hear
from her for days and weeks,

and this went on and on.

And the NICU was about a 30
minute drive from our home,

so everyday my dad
would pile everybody

into the car, drive
to the hospital,

drop my mom off.

He would take my older
brother to school

before going to work himself.

And then after work, he
would pick my brother up,

and they would go
to the hospital,

we would all spend
time together,

and my family would return home,

only to just do it
again the next day.

During this time, my brother,
who was very outgoing,

made friends with
the neonatologist.

And they would actually
go on rounds together.

And one day, the neonatologist
asked my brother,

does your little
brother have a name yet?

And in classic
fashion, he said yes.

His name is Brian.

And so the next day,
when my parents returned

to the hospital,
written above my crib

was the name Brian Muthyala.

To this day, no one knows
how he came up with it.

And my parents, as
you could imagine,

were a little surprised.

But in our traditions,
it is considered bad luck

to take a name away from
a child once it's given.

So eventually, I got old enough,

and I was sent home to
join my family a Brian,

living with Ramaiah,
Vimala, and Sharat.

As the son of immigrant parents,

I often felt torn between
cultures, values, and beliefs.

Brian could play
soccer, go to the mall,

play video games, whereas
Kirti, my middle name,

was a dutiful son, and
who knew just how to act

with the aunties
and uncles who lived

in our small Indian community.

As a teenager, I was
grateful that my brother

gave me a name that
allowed me to blend in.

Strangers would see my
brown skin, my last name,

but my otherness was
often less visible

because Brian felt so familiar.

Today, as a doctor,
I watch my patients

stare wide-eyed at my ID badge
after I introduce myself,

trying to enunciate Moothealla?

And I quickly interrupt
them, and I say

you can just call me Dr. Brian.

And I often will see the
relief wash over their face

as we share a quick
smile together.

I have often reflected on
how my life has been simpler

because of the mysterious
split second decision

of a six-year-old brother.

But more recently, these
thoughts have made me uneasy.

Names are important.

And while my name
made introductions
comfortable for others,

it also put me further
away from the rich history

and traditions that my parents
worked so hard to maintain

in our family.

So when it came time
to name our children,

my wife and I intentionally
chose traditional Indian names,

realizing that they will not
have some of the benefits

that I had.

And at times I fear for my
two young beautiful kids.

How will I teach them
to not be afraid,

shy, or embarrassed of
the richness of those

that came before them?

I hope I'm as
courageous as my parents

who braved an unknown
world to make a better life

for me and Sharat.

I hope I can be the
parent, son, partner,

doctor, friend, and neighbor,

and live up to the
name I was given

all those years ago.