What’s in a Name?
In 2021, I made the decision to stop using my stage (or dance) name. It wasn’t a sudden choice, nor an easy one, but it felt like an important step in aligning my values with my practice as a dancer and teacher. I want to share some of the thinking behind that decision here, thoughtfully and honestly, because names carry weight, history, and meaning.
Why I Took a Dance Name in the First Place
When I first started dancing, I actually rejected the idea of taking a dance name. I didn’t feel that dancing turned me into someone else. When I danced, I was still me. The dancer wasn’t a persona I put on; it was simply another way of expressing who I already was.
That perspective shifted once I began performing more publicly. Using my full real name, the same one tied to my professional, “day job” life, felt impractical. Performing in restaurants, events, and public venues created an overlap between worlds that I wasn’t always comfortable with. A stage name offered a layer of separation and privacy that felt necessary at the time. Had my non-dance career existed in a different context, I might have made a different choice, but my day-job context is another story altogether.
Being Given a Name
When I decided to adopt a dance name, I sought guidance from my Egyptian teachers. I was given the name Jehan (جهان, pronounced Jhe-hahn). For reasons that still make me shake my head at myself, I chose to spell it Jehane, which inevitably led some people to pronounce it Ge-hain. Apparently, if I was already correcting people about the spelling of my real name, forever chasing the missing “e” on the end of Jocelyne, I saw no reason not to carry on that small tradition of frustration with my dance name as well.
Fun fact: one of my troupe-mates once pointed out that Jehan actually echoed my first initial and last name; the letter “J”, pronounced “jay” in English, is pronounced “jee” in French, and “Khan”, while usually pronounced “Kan”, is actually properly pronounced more like “hahn”, making the connection unexpectedly clever.
At the time, the name felt right. It was given to me by native-Egyptian teachers I respected deeply, and like many dancers, I felt honoured to receive a name from within that lineage. The idea that this could be interpreted as problematic never crossed my mind. It was common practice, widely accepted, and rooted, at least in my experience, in professional practice, and cultural respect and admiration.
Listening, Learning, and Reconsidering
Over time, my understanding evolved.
I began to read and listen more carefully to the voices of dancers and culture-bearers of native origin who expressed discomfort with non-Arab, non-SWANA, and non-MENAHT dancers adopting Arabic-sounding names. For some, these names felt like a form of cultural appropriation or misrepresentation, even when no harm was intended.
That feedback mattered to me.
Honouring the cultures of origin for the dance styles I practice is absolutely fundamental to how I approach this art form. I have never tried to present myself as being from cultures that are not my own. Respect, for me, means not only appreciating the dance, music, and history, but also being willing to reflect on how my own choices might land for others.
Even though the name was given to me by an Egyptian teacher, I came to understand that intent does not negate impact. If my use of an Arabic-sounding name could feel uncomfortable or diminishing to dancers from those cultures, then continuing to use it no longer felt aligned with my values.
Letting the Name Go
After a great deal of reflection, I decided in 2021 to stop using the name Jehane.
This choice was not about rejecting my teachers, my training, or my love for the dance. It was about recognizing that respect is an ongoing practice, not a static achievement. As conversations change and awareness deepens, so too must our willingness to adapt.
There were also very practical, personal changes happening in my life at the same time. I am, at this stage of my life, retired from performing dance professionally. While I continue to teach, mentor, and share this art form, the public-facing demands of professional performance are no longer part of my work.
Since 2023, I am also retired from my day‑job career after 35 years in an environment that was often actively hostile to women. For decades, maintaining a clear separation between my professional life and my artistic life was necessary. That separation once served a purpose; it offered boundaries and a way to keep parts of myself protected in a male-dominated, often misogynistic workplace.
Now, I no longer need to repress or conceal my artistic side. Retirement has brought with it a reclaiming of freedom; freedom of time, of energy, and of personal expression.
Taken together, these shifts made it much easier, and much more natural, to transition back to using my real name within the dance context. Aging has brought with it a quieter but deeper confidence: a sense of knowing who I am, what I stand for, and what no longer needs defending or disguising. The reasons I once needed a stage name simply no longer apply, and letting it go felt like an act of honesty rather than loss.
Reintroducing Myself
So, with that in mind, I reintroduced myself, both then and now, using my real name:
Jocelyne.
That’s JOS-lyn in English, or Juss-LYNN in French. If you’re speaking Arabic, feel free to choose whichever version works best for you.
I also happily answer to a long list of alternatives, including (but not limited to): Joce, Joss, chica, chicklet, sister, aunty, Mrs./Ms. Khan, or “hey you”.
Names evolve. Understanding evolves. And sometimes, growth looks like letting something go, even if it once felt right. For me, this was one of those moments.