My name is Kamala and I’m the leading candidate for U.S. Senate in California, even though polls suggest that more than half of Californians are still learning my name, and how to pronounce it.

I, Kamala, am also a Muslim Marvel heroine, a wrestler, a courtesan in Siddhartha, the German poet Hermann Hesse’s book on Buddhism and enlightenment, and an ape woman (more on that later).

Of course, if you’re asking about me specifically, I’m just a journalist in New York who has one fundamental thing in common with all these other Kamalas. Our name might be daunting at first; some people are afraid to even try saying it. But I do feel a closer bond to those who pronounce it correctly because when they do, it sounds endearing and even elegant.

Here’s how I usually explain its phonetics. First, each syllable rhymes with the last. It’s “cuh-muh-luh.” I usually start by saying, “It’s like ‘Come along with me, Kamala,” because they rhyme. Then I advise to go against all instincts to add accents; there’s actually no emphasis and all the vowels make the same noise. But that explanation has been practiced over decades and it still doesn’t always click.

When I was growing up in Southern California, roll call at school was a trigger for anxiety. One of my high school teachers told me it sounded like the name of an ape and nicknamed me “ape woman.” A friend’s mom thought my name was Cabochon, a French gemstone. And of course teenage boys—sometimes even grown men—would just add a “t” at the end and turn it into a hypothetical porn star’s name.

Adult life has changed the course of the conversation. I was a reporter in San Francisco while Attorney General Kamala Harris was the city’s district attorney—the first Kamala I ever met, and suddenly my name was not that strange. I also lived in India where Kamala is as recognizable as Jennifer or Michelle is here, though there my name provoked probing questions because I’m half white.

Regardless of whatever associations a person might have, I appreciate when people embrace the awkwardness instead of dodging it, or worse, admitting they will never say it right anyway and giving up. I certainly don’t get everybody’s name right the first time, but since I understand what it feels like to be dismissed I am determined to try and to appreciate other people who do, too. And now with Harris running for Senate I’m hoping when you and I meet, you will have already experienced the first step.

Here’s a primer on its roots: Kamala is an old name that means lotus in Sanskrit, it’s also synonymous with my stepmom’s name Padma. Both Kamala and Padma are among several surrogate names for the Hindu goddess Lakshmi of wealth and prosperity. And the lotus is venerated in both Hinduism and Buddhism. Its symmetry is emblematic of several chakras or energy centers and can withstand the most extreme storms.

When I explained this to a friend from Ireland who asked about my name, she burst into laughter a sentence in, and I had to laugh with her. People often ask about its meaning and I’m happy to tell it, but it usually changes the tone of the conversation. It forces me to be the purveyor of what is perceived as some momentous sentiment, which is humorous because I’m not a serious person. And journalist Kamala doesn’t do a good job of personifying all of the lotus’s eloquent traits nor does she really understand how to identify with them. (Of course, I’d rather be called lotus than ape woman.)

Harris might be better at symbolizing the etymology and the goddess—her mother was a Hindu who moved to the U.S. from India, and she grew up learning about the religion. My dad is the Indian one and he’s not Hindu nor Buddhist.

Harris actually pronounces Kamala slightly differently than I do—and in a way that makes it less tedious to explain. She says the first syllable of her name with a short “o” sound, so it’s like “comma-la” or “calm-ala.”

I don’t know any Indians who pronounce it that way; the ones I know say it the way I do. But there are a lot of emerging Kamalas in the polyglot U.S., who may also have their own variations. Ours, after all, is a country where a New Zealander with the name “Brett” will pronounce it “Britt,” and we still say “Brett.” So, tomato, tomato, potato, potato—just remember not to scoff.