Even though "Sung" is direct, phonetic translation of my Korean name, it gives many people the willies. A common variant is "Soong" (with a hard stress on the S like "I'm gonna SUE your ass"). The very first time I heard this, I gently corrected the unenlightened. The second time, I still felt the urge to make things right in the world. But after that I knew better: just sit back and let them make a mess of it. It's kind of like watching someone hugging five grocery bags struggle up a flight of stairs.

Human beings need to complicate things. If a name sounds, looks, and smells like Sung, why it must surely be pronounced Tz-sûñhg! After all, in a world where VCRs can anticipate daylight savings time, how could somebody's name be so simple? It must be a trick.

"It's the past participle of the verb 'to sing'," I told somebody once, hoping the association would help him remember.

"Oh yeah, that's funny," he said. "Past participle, yeah."

The next day I was known as "Sang" around the office.

But despite the everyday horror, I shied away from choosing an American name. What can I say, I like Sung. It's not as macho as Vic or classy like Roland or as cool as Mason, but it's my name. It's who I am, and I had no plans to change my identity anytime soon.

So at my new job, I answer my phone like this:

"Hello, this is Tom. How can I help you?"

It's a complicated story.

Two weeks ago, Eileen, who is the recruiter at my current consulting firm, gave me a ring. She had a position for me, which was great news because my current job was as fun as chewing on tinfoil. Eileen and I have never met face to face; we've only talked over the phone.

She described the new job to me: a major corporation needed PC-hardware tech support over the phone, and they were willing to pay big. It was right up my alley.

"I'll buzz you right back, I promise," she told me. "Just have to set things up with the client."

In the afternoon, she buzzed. "Sung," she said, sounding unsure. "I've never asked this of anyone. Please don't be offended."

"The only things that offends me is low salary," I joked, but she didn't laugh. There was silence on the line, as if she were afraid to say it.

Then she blurted it out in one quick burst: "It's your name."

"My name?"

"It may stand in the way, you know, because it's not American. I don't want you to lose your chance at getting this job." Since the job was strictly telephone support, she informed me, excellent oral communication was priority number one.

I pointed out my English degree from Cornell.

"Yeah," she said.

I also pointed out that I was doing telephone support at my current job.

"Yeah, I know," she said.

Then I asked her the million dollar question: "How do you think I speak?"

"You're one of the natives, Sung," she said, "but this guy's only going to see your resume."

Was she right? Would this guy overlook my Ivy League degree and my current helpdesk job at a Fortune 500 company? "Sung," would he say, "what the hell is that? When did this guy get off the boat?"

Who knows. She had a point, I suppose. Even though equal opportunity and affirmative action stood strong in the U.S., it didn't prevent people from having their biases. I thought of all the resumes I had sent out in my life -- "Sung J. Woo" in bold, 18-point Times Roman prominently floated to the top. How many people had it scared away? How many jobs had I lost?

"Tom," I told her, thinking about the better job, the big salary. "My name is Tom."

"Good enough," Eileen said, and hung up.

I picked Tom because that's my Catholic name. Doubting Thomas. At least it had some connection with who I was. Or was it the overwhelming guilt of deception that forced the choice?

An older gentleman with a serious handlebar mustache met him for the interview.  "Hey, Tom," Russell drawled out, Tom's future boss. He offered his hand and smiled warmly, a fatherly smile.

The moment had arrived. Sung had planned numerous strategies to combat his unfortunate misnomer, but thrust against the problem head-on, none of them seemed to make much sense.

"Hello, Russell," he said, and had neither the heart nor the guts to correct him. Besides, he wanted the job. Why ruin things? Play it safe. "Nice to meet you," Tom said.

The first day at work was like being on a covert mission. Codename: Tom. My mission: to respond when hailed by my new name. It wasn't a great day: twice my boss called me and I failed to answer right away.

It was fun having a new name, a new identity. Who was this Tom guy? Did he like chicken soup as much as Sung? Did he chew on his fingernails when things got tough? Maybe Tom could be the new and improved Sung: full of energy, optimistic, a proactive go-getter all the way. He would be Sung, and more. Much more.

The novelty wore off in less than 48 hours. I started to feel as if I weren't actuallythere. Every time I answered the phone with "Hello, this is Tom," I drifted further away from my seat. (This is probably the closest to an "out-of-body" experience as I'll ever have.) During lunch, I daydreamed strange stuff. One such thought: Nothing I did here had any effect on my life, since I was no longer living my life, so my actions held no legitimate consequence. What if I were to streak around the cubicles? "Tom!" they'd scream. "Have you gone mad?" Another thought: it was too easy to lie about something as deep and personal as your name. Truth is what we say is truth. Absolute truth is an idea, not a reality.

Being called someone I wasn't was quite unnerving. I missed hearing my real name.  It's amazing how many times we are affirmed of our identity each and every day. Just imagine if people called you something else -- try it for a day. It'll drive you nuts. I missed my name like a baby misses his pacifier.

"Morning, Tom," Billy says always, my cube neighbor.

"Hey, Billy," I reply, wishing he'd called me Sung.

While Billy lectures me on why the Mets stink this season, I think about Tom.

I also think about the Pentium Pro PC I'll buy with my big-ass raise.

I don't know if I did the right thing.

Maybe next time, I'd stick to my guns and say, "Hey, if you're not open-minded enough to believe that an Asian-American can talk like Peter Jennings, screw you."

Would I actually do that?

Maybe. And maybe not.

As horrible as this may sound, I think it all depends on how much they pay me.