I used to be a teacher. I made it part of my job to do this 1 critical thing for my students of color.

“And this isn’t just a classroom issue.”

When I was choosing my daughter’s name, my loved ones offered a couple of warnings.

“Just don’t choose anything that will keep her from getting a job.”

“Make sure you don’t give her name a Black spelling.”

Honestly, I was incensed. I wanted to add some accents and dashes, stereotypical hallmarks of “Black names,” in defiance of this blatant act of assimilation.

In addition to trying to protect my daughter from economic discrimination as an adult, I can also assume they were trying to save her embarrassment as a child.

For young people whose names fall outside dominant Anglo-American naming traditions, having that name pronounced correctly can be a task, a chore and a continual fight. That fight usually begins the moment a child enters school.

As a native New Orleanian, I witnessed these battles as a student. New Orleans is a city shaped by Indigenous people, enslaved Africans, French and Spanish settlers, and generations of immigrants, including Asian Americans. Our city is legendary for its unique pronunciations.

Yet my teachers struggled to pronounce the names of the children who live here.

My name is Julienne, joo-lee-EN, of French origin. Many teachers mispronounced my name, either calling me by a nickname or simply continuing to say it incorrectly, calling me Jillian or JulieANNE, even after I’d correct them.

But it was worse for some of my peers. When teachers called roll at my high school, Asian American and African American classmates quickly rushed to provide nicknames or “American names.”

This is called “roll call anxiety,” the anxiety around having their names called incorrectly in classroom settings. For some, the solution is to alter, shorten or abandon their given names altogether in favor of names that feel easier for others to pronounce.

Some teachers outright said, “I’m never going to be able to pronounce that,” a phrase that increases feelings of exhaustion, embarrassment, and a lost sense of belonging at school. As the authority figure in the room, the teacher has also given implicit permission to mock or bully the child.

Students’ perceptions that their instructors know and correctly pronounce their names are connected to respect, equality and inclusion. The National Education Association has likewise emphasized that students’ names can carry identity, ancestral and historical significance.

And this isn’t just a classroom issue.

Americans encounter unfamiliar names everywhere, perhaps most visibly in professional sports. The NBA and WNBA employ athletes from around the world. Black players with names rooted in African ancestry have to navigate whether to use their given names, adopt nicknames or make their names easier for American commentators and audiences to pronounce.

The WNBA’s President of the Players Association, affectionately called “Nneka,” has a birth name of Nnemkadi “Nneka” Chinwe Ogwumike. She is set to retire after 15 years in the league. I wonder how many spectators know, or have even tried, to learn the full pronunciation of her name. Nneka isn’t actually her name at all, it just shares letters with her full name.

That’s not a sign of affection. It’s a refusal of peers and adults in all spheres to respect and acknowledge her. And it’s the same for Sha’Carri Richardson and Giannis Antetokounmpo.

We don’t ask white international athletes like Nikola Jokic and Luka Doncic to make that calculation. Yes, Jokic is called the “Joker,” but his name is well known and correctly pronounced. This is the case for many unusually named celebrities ― think Mariska, Timothée and Charlize ― as long as they are white, that is.

Refusing to say someone’s name correctly is a microaggression that alienates, dehumanizes and disempowers them. Research has found that name characteristics, including pronounceability, can influence professional outcomes. And the landmark résumé study found that résumés with White-associated names received roughly 50% more callbacks than otherwise comparable résumés with Black-associated names.

But what is a “Black name”? An “Asian name”? A “white name”? There is no universal list. Names become racialized through history, geography, culture, patterns of use and, importantly, perception.

There is nothing inherently difficult about a name. There are names that are familiar to us and names that are not. And since America is the self-proclaimed “nation of immigrants,” we’ve all had time to learn new cultures and histories.

When I was a teacher, I made learning my students’ names part of my job. During the first 30 days of school, I made it a personal goal to learn every student’s name. I would quietly ask a student to say their name for me. I would write out the pronunciation if I needed to. I practiced.

And when I finally got it right, I didn’t make a spectacle of it. I simply said their name correctly. And I only abbreviated or provided nicknames when given explicit permission.

What I found is that children love their names, their heritage and their roots; they just need their teachers to validate them.

A teacher’s roster is more than a list of names. It’s a collection of the rich history, ancestry and culture. So this school year, here’s my challenge to teachers: Make learning your students’ names a 30-day challenge. Give yourself 30 days to learn every name in your classroom. Ask when you’re unsure. Write down the pronunciation. Practice. Try again when you get it wrong.

Because this is the first and easiest way to signal to the young people looking to you: You belong.

Julienne Louis-Anderson is a former educator who writes about the intersection of culture and politics with education and human development.