What’s in a Name
I found out a few days ago that I’m in Saigon.
Well —a region of it, anyway.
Officially, it’s Ho Chi Minh City.
But people still say Saigon.
And that got me thinking.
Why do names change?
Peking becomes Beijing.
Bombay becomes Mumbai.
Toronto becomes the Six (just kidding).
Sometimes a name change is about accuracy.
Sometimes it’s political.
Sometimes it’s reclamation.
Sometimes it’s an attempt to move forward without fully looking back.
A name doesn’t erase history — but it can soften it.
Or reframe it.
Or hide parts of it until time decides what survives.
Standing here, in a city with two names, I realized I’m doing something similar.
I’m changing from Derick to ChihSang.
Not legally.
Not to deny where I came from.
But to name who I am becoming.
This isn’t about pretending the past didn’t happen.
It’s about allowing space for a new context.
Derick holds history — family, duty, expectation, survival.
ChihSang holds intention — creativity, presence, choice.
Both are true.
Neither cancels the other.
Like Saigon and Ho Chi Minh City, the names coexist.
One speaks to origin. The other speaks to direction.
As a performer, as a storyteller, as someone stepping onto a stage, ChihSang feels honest.
It’s not a mask. It’s a signal.
History has a way of unsealing itself when it’s ready.
Names don’t bury truth — time reveals it.
For now, I’m not erasing anything.
I’m simply choosing how I’m addressed while I change.
And maybe that’s all a name ever really is:
a marker of where we are in the story.
Not the whole story.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.”
—Romeo + Juliet (1996)