On the first day of seventh grade, Ayodele sat in the third row and waited for the part of the morning she dreaded every year: roll call.

When the teacher reached her name, he paused and frowned at the list. He tried it once, then again, and each time it came out as a sound her family would never have recognized. A few students giggled.

"Here," Ayodele said, sinking lower in her chair. She did not correct him. She never did. Correcting people meant everyone would stare at her even longer.

That afternoon, her language arts teacher, Mr. Delgado, gave the class its first assignment: write about the story behind your name.

At home, Ayodele asked her mother. Her mother set down the dish she was drying and smiled. "Your name means joy has come home," she said. "Your grandmother chose it. You were the first grandchild born after we moved to Houston, and she said you made this new place feel like home."

Ayodele wrote three pages that night. She wrote about her grandmother, who still called every Sunday from Lagos, and about how her name sounded when her mother said it, soft and round, like the start of a song.

The next week, Mr. Delgado asked for volunteers to read their work aloud. Ayodele's heart pounded, but her hand went up.

When she finished reading, she looked out at the class. "One more thing," she said. "This is how you say it." Then she said her name slowly, the way her mother did.

Mr. Delgado repeated it after her. This time, he got it exactly right.