This story is about a M’sian man who shared how he as a child was bullied so badly in school that even his own name became a weapon — until he legally changed it to survive.
I legally changed my name because of school bullying.
Yeah, I know how that sounds. Extreme. Unnecessary, even. But for me, it was survival. My name wasn’t just a name anymore — it became their weapon. Every roll call, every shout across the playground, every whispered taunt… it was like someone slapping a bruise so that it never healed.
So I did the unthinkable: I buried it.
The Beginning of the Bullying
When I started primary school, I was the scrawny runt-of-the-litter kid of mixed-heritage – Dutch-Chinese Malaysian. I was a little fairer skinned, smaller-built and blond. I stood out in all the wrong ways.
Kids picked up on differences like sharks smelling blood. My old name was Matthew, or just “Matt”.
The names started small as “Matt-Salleh” and then became “Matt-Salleh palsu” shouted across the classroom.
Whenever the teacher called my name, the popular kids mocked and laughed.
It wasn’t the quiet, background kind of bullying. It was public. Loud. Endorsed by the silence of other kids. Sometimes even the teachers chuckled along. Imagine that: the adults laughing when you get called “Matt-Salleh” or “Matt-telur-putih” because of my fairer than normal skin.
The Bullying Evolved
It didn’t stay verbal for long. It quickly evolved into pushes in the corridor, and “accidental” shoves that left bruises on my shoulders. It became routine to be tripped when walking to the canteen accompanied by their voices sing-songing my name as “Matt-Telur-Setengah-Masak” or “Nasi Campur Matt-salleh-tak-jadi.”
Every time I heard my name, it was a punch to the face.
It didn’t help that they added other insults like “Bulu-Barbie” because I was blond, and the classic “anak angkat” as if I was adopted.
The breaking point came during recess. Four of them cornered me at the playground, shouting taunts and insults, pushing me around as they played keep-away with my school bag. Something inside me snapped and I fought back. One against four. It lasted a minute or two before teachers rushed in, pulled us apart.
Guess who got blamed?
My parents fought, armed with years long records, letters, phone calls and written complaints. In the end, charges against me were dropped, but the damage was done. I was the troublemaker. The fighter. The “crazy one.” And the “unofficial” record followed me.
The Aftermath – Institutional Failure
My parents had lodged complaints for years, sending letter after letter, met countless teachers, then deputy principal, discipline masters and even the principal. It was always, “Mereka cuma main kasar, bukan bergaduh betul.”
The system took parental complaints, and even threats of legal action in stride, shrugged and did absolutely nothing.
“Both sides are at fault,” they said, but there was always just a little more blame to be placed on me than the human-animals that would bully me.
That was the line. And that was the betrayal cut deeper than the bullying.
It wasn’t just the kids anymore. The school itself was another source of damage.
In the end, the solution that satisfied the system was simple: I would transfer schools. There would be no mark on my record. I get to start over. But you don’t really “start over” when the rumours follow you.
The Haunting Psychological Damage
Someone in the system leaked my past, because at my new school, the whispers followed me in the corridors, canteen and even in the supposed silence of the library. They knew my name, the fighting, that made me a “samseng,” and not the whole truth about me.
I was “that unstable kid.” The one with anger issues. The one who fought four people at once, and won. I found that funny.
Nightmares haunted my sleep. I’d wake up in a sweat, hearing their voices chanting my name in the dark. Even in safe spaces, even at home, hearing my name felt like a curse. Dirty. Stained. Poisoned.
How do you carry a name that feels like a scar you can’t peel off?
The Turning Point – Convincing My Parents
Therapy made me face it: The root of my trauma wasn’t just the bullying. It was my name itself. Every time I heard someone say “Matt” or even “Matthew,” even by family and friends, I flinched. Every roll call, my body braced like I was about to be hit. My fists were held permanently clenched, always on a hair trigger to start throwing punches.
I told my parents it needed to change.
They thought I was running away. That changing my name was like erasing everything that made me, their son.
But with time, a lot of painful talks with my parents, they began to see it wasn’t me running away or trying to escape: It was survival.
“The name is broken,” I told them, “it’s time for a new one.” We finally came to a compromise: I would change my first name, which had been weaponized against me, but I would keep my family name.
The JPN Process
My parent’s support was unwavering, because they understood I wasn’t cutting them out of me, but that changing my name meant putting everything behind not just me, but for us as a family.
Compared to everything that I had been through, it was almost funny how easy the government paperwork was. Fill forms. Lots of signatures. Pay fees. Jabatan Pendaftaran Negara didn’t ask or care about therapists’ letters or bullying or emotional scars. Six months later, we got a letter, and I collected my new MyKad. It was done.
What It Means to Start Over
We moved to another state, from one end of the country to the other. A true fresh start in a new city, new school and a new name. For the first time in years, hearing my name, hearing roll call wasn’t a trigger.
Those first few months were…strange. My new name wasn’t quite mine yet. Sometimes my parents slipped up and used the old one.
Sometimes teachers would call on me in class, and it would take a few moments to register. I slowly grew into it.
I’m grateful for my second chance, but honestly, that old name is still there. It lingers in the dark corners of my mind, cold, alien. Trauma doesn’t disappear just because you print a new MyKad.
Sometimes I still flinch when I hear it in public, even though it’s not me they’re calling. But it’s getting better. My fists no longer clench. My heartbeat doesn’t spike like I’m about to go to war.
Moving Forward
Names are meant to be worn with pride. They are meant to resonate with your heritage, and give you a sense of belonging. Before, all mine carried were emotional scars, and traumatic nightmares.
My parents and therapist understood why I would need to legally change my name to start over. Because that makes it mine. Chosen and untainted so I could rewrite the story of who I am, to live.
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