Welcome Candy, Sam, & George

They entered ornate, flag-filled halls, ready to swear their first oaths of allegiance: Jiong Ping Huang from China; Mohammad Hussam Sawar from Syria; Dung Thanh Ho from Vietnam; and Gjergji Cani from Albania.

They emerged after moving ceremonies, bearing proof of their new US citizenship, smiles, and something else. Jiong Ping was now Candy. Mohammad became Sam. Dung was now Brandy. Gjergji became George.

"I adjusted to my new environment," said Cani, a Medford accounts coordinator who immigrated to the United States with his family five years ago. "Here, diversity is the norm, but you have to adapt yourself in this new culture."

The roiling national debate over immigration has been largely driven by questions of how waves of new arrivals are remaking American society.

But the urge to assimilate in the most conspicuous way -- changing one's name -- remains surprisingly strong in this era of cultural diversity.

A Globe review of 1,000 recent name changes filed at the US District Court in Boston found the desire to adopt American names was especially common among Asians, whose given names have pronunciations that can confound Americans. Arab and Muslim immigrants, whose names have brought them closer scrutiny in recent years, were also disproportionately represented.

Until the 1960s, immigration historians say, most immigrants took new names to ease their transition to American life. But in that decade, the rise of the civil rights movement triggered a new pride in ethnicity. At the same time, the number of countries sending people to the United States greatly expanded, making foreigners -- even those with unfamiliar names -- more a part of the fabric here.

Still, nationally, about 16 percent of immigrants who become citizens change their names, according to the most recent statistics available from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services.

And while no comprehensive tally is kept by Massachusetts, the Globe found that during a three-month period that ended in January, 20 percent of those who became naturalized citizens selected new names. Of those, approximately 1 in 3 chose to Americanize their names.

While the Globe review is not scientific, patterns emerged: Vietnamese immigrants were most likely to choose common American names to replace their original ones, followed by immigrants from China. In part, that reflects a greater desire to blend in, specialists said.

The Vietnamese, many of whom came here as refugees, are eager to move on, said Muzaffar Chishti , director of the Migration Policy Institute office at the New York University School of Law.

"For people who didn't come from that level of insecurity, the psychological need is not that powerful," Chishti said.

Hiep Chu, executive director of VietAID, a community organization in Dorchester, said another force is at work among the Vietnamese: an intense desire to succeed in the mainstream.

"Changing their name is one of the things they think will help them advance into American society," Chu said.

Jenny Streeling, 26, a Vietnamese immigrant and student at Worcester Polytechnic Institute, changed her name from Dinh Tieu Dang when she became a citizen in December. She said she did so because, "my name is so hard to pronounce; I didn't feel comfortable in class."

Streeling's parents were not pleased.

"They'd like me to be comfortable with the name I have," she said.

Chu said, however, that more Vietnamese parents want their children to have American names, like most of the youngsters in his Vietnamese language program do.

Two of Chu's siblings changed their names, to Henry and Elizabeth, when they became citizens. He kept his given name and chose Vietnamese names for his two children, who were born in America.

"I don't think we have to sacrifice anything to be American, not even my name," he said. "I absolutely feel that would be a loss, culturally, identity-wise."

His children have sometimes found their names a challenge. Chu said he once saw his daughter, DanThuy, argue with another girl who would not try to say her Vietnamese name. He sat his daughter down when she was 6 and offered her the chance to change it to something easier to pronounce. She refused.

"She's 16 now, and she's really proud of her name," Chu said.

The workplace exerts its own pressure, especially if immigrants have names co-workers struggle to pronounce.

"The workplace is where practicality collides with political correctness," said Shawn Saucier, spokesman for Citizenship and Immigration Services. " 'How much time do I spend trying to learn his name?' 'How much time does he spend trying to teach me his name?' "

Sze Lun Wong, a student at Bunker Hill Community College, changed her first name to April when she was naturalized last fall, fearing her Chinese name would hurt her chances of landing a job. Wong, who arrived from Hong Kong in 2001, said her teachers have trouble saying her name. She worries that employers will look down on her.

"You write down your Chinese name, they think, maybe you just came here, maybe you can't handle the job," she said. "They want to hire people from here. Now, people will think I am born here, maybe my English is good, maybe I'm able to handle the job and be in America."

Wong said her parents were unhappy she would no longer be known as Sze Lun, which means "family support."

"In China, your name has meaning, and they wish it will be good for you for your whole life," Wong said.

Each of the immigrants interviewed by the Globe said they had to weigh competing questions when deciding whether to change their name: How difficult would their lives here be if they kept their given names? And how much would they be giving up if they abandoned them?

For George Cani, it wasn't much of a struggle: After emigrating with his family from Albania five years ago, he simply switched to the English version of his given name, Gjergji.

It has made navigating life in the United States much simpler, he said. "The root of the name is same," said Cani. "But it's easier for communicating."

Like others, Cani said he feels more confident with a more common name: "If you spell a foreign name for people, I don't think you are very welcomed," he said.

Vanitha Kumar's former name, Vanitha Vijaykumar, was "a mouthful," she said, creating all manner of e-mail mix-ups at the high-tech company where she worked. She wasn't particularly attached to her old name, she said, since last names are not commonly used in India. So she lopped off the beginning of her surname when she became a citizen.

"It was mostly to make it easier on others, and us, I guess," said the Fitchburg resident.

For Mary Elizabeth Gray, the calculation was far more difficult. The 43-year-old social worker, who was born in Turkey, changed her first name, from Muhubet, which is pronounced "MOO-hoo-bet."

"Nobody could pronounce it," said Gray, a resident of Randolph. "And it was a disadvantage for me, in advancing my career, and everything else."

She said that since Sept. 11, 2001, her given name has held her up, especially at airports, and subjected her to unwanted scrutiny. She said she was often called upon to defend Islam, even though she is not practicing.

"It is very amazing," she said. "They see my name, and no matter what passport I have, they ask where I come from, do I know about the Shia and the Sunni. It was really becoming uncomfortable for me. You feel like you're defending yourself every single day."

But since she changed her name, Gray hasn't felt quite right: Perhaps she gave up too much to fit in more easily, she said.

"I do regret it," she said, explaining that she chose Mary Elizabeth because it came closest to her old name. "I feel like that's not really me. I really want to continue the name my grandmother gave me."

She is now considering changing her name back.

"I should deal with it in a different way; I should ignore people," she said. "I should not just give up who I am."

Yvonne Abraham can be reached at abraham@globe.com.