What's In a Name?

Well, William, a rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but I’m not sure the same rule applies for me. Upon being matched with a host family, one of the first family affairs was the selection of a new, Setswana name for me. I was dubbed Lorato (meaning “love”) after my host mother. Overwhelmed by all the excitement that accompanies the commencement of an adventure, I embraced it whole-heartedly and accepted it as part of “the new me” without much thought.
Fast forward five weeks into training, and I was just about fed up with the seeming refusal by Batswana to use my real name. The use of Setswana names rather than given names doesn’t seem to bother any other volunteer, but it became a personal pet peeve of mine. I personally do not think that a person needs to forsake their identity in its entirety in order to assimilate into a culture and integrate into a community. As I struggled with mourning my past life, an intense training schedule, and severe homesickness for my friends and family, not being called by my name became a tragedy. I made it my personal mission to only be called Tess. Let me illustrate.

Conversation With a Motswana Pre-Operation “Tess” (with translation):
Me: Dumela Mma. Hello ma’am.
Woman: Dumela Mma. O tsogile? Hello ma’am. Have you risen?
Me: Ke tsogile, wena? I have risen, yourself?
Woman: Ke tsogile. Leina la gago ke mang? I have risen. What is your name?
Me: Ke bidiwa Tess. Wena? I am called Tess. Yourself?
Woman: Ke bidiwa Neo. Leina la gago ke mang ka Setswana? I am called Neo. What is your name in Setswana?
Me: Ka Setswana, ke bidiwa Lorato. In Setswana I am called Lorato.
Woman: Ah! Lorato! “Love!” Ah! Lorato! “Love!”

Conversation With a Motswana During Operation “Tess”:
Me: Dumela Mma. Hello ma’am.
Woman: Dumela Mma. O tsogile? Hello ma’am. Have you risen?
Me: Ke tsogile, wena? I have risen, yourself?
Woman: Ke tsogile. Leina la gago ke mang? I have risen. What is your name?
Me: Ke bidiwa Tess. Wena? I am called Tess. Yourself?
Woman: Ke bidiwa Neo. Leina la gago ke mang ka Setswana? I am called Neo. What is your name in Setswana?
Me: Ka Setswana, ke santse ke bidiwa Tess. In Setswana I am still called Tess.
Woman: (Look of confusion; walks away.)

As you can tell, insisting upon my given name is somewhat a conversation killer. Perhaps you, my dear readers, side with Juliet and feel that a name is insignificant and superficial. Many volunteers would agree. But, as I questioned why I felt so adamantly against the practice of re-naming, I found myself reflecting upon our own country’s experiences with foreigners and nomenclature. (Note: Let me preface this by saying that these examples are absolutely not comparable to the situation in Botswana. I in no way intend to imply that Batswana are being rude or belittling in giving foreigners a Setswana name. I will explain further later, but please keep that in mind as you read.)

• I began to think of immigration and Ellis Island when I realized that “Tess” is a very odd name here in Botswana. The “eh” vowel sound is unusual to them, as is the double “s.” That is another reason for having a Setswana name – it is easier for them to pronounce and remember. It is a common myth (one that I believed actually until I did some research for this blog post) that officials at Ellis Island changed hard-to-spell names. Rather, Ellis Island upheld strict standards for accurate information. It is the immigrants themselves who changed their names for a variety of reasons: to prevent confusion and/or frustration concerning the pronunciation, to aid in adapting to American culture, and to help assimilation into their workplace and the society, among others. The one I associate with is the frustration over pronunciation – although it truly doesn’t bother me to be called “Tazz” (in fact, that is closer than most Americans’ attempts to pronounce my last name). However, despite the obstacles a foreign-sounding name may pose, I cannot agree with immigrants coming into America and changing their names. It is too much a part of your identity, especially as one has forgone every other aspect of their previous life. [Source: http://blog.lib.umn.edu/ihrc/immigration/2007/02/whats_in_a_name.html]

• The second instance in American history concerning name change hit me as I was glancing through A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. (Note: I really was simply glancing through. I’m not mature enough yet to think that history books are fun to read.) In the whole chapter on slavery, only two names of slaves were mentioned – Emanuel and John Punch. It struck me that both of those names sound remarkably… English. Slave owners changed their slaves’ names for, it seems, two main reasons: they did not care to learn their given name, and it established the power dynamic. Slave owners would often use shortened versions of common names, such as Jem for James and Beck for Rebecca. Also popular were Biblical names and location-inspired names. There are very few registration records of slaves using their original names. Additionally, slaves were not given surnames, but rather chose them for themselves if they were so inclined, seemingly as an effort to regain some status and integrate more into society. Their owners would refuse to acknowledge those surnames (although in runaway notices, they would include the full name, in case the slave used her/his full name as s/he traveled). [Source: http://www.afrolumens.org/slavery/names.html]

The last thing I want is for you to think I am comparing Batswana to slave owners. Here in Botswana, they give foreigners a Setswana name in order to welcome them and to help them feel at ease. Here, names are given in good spirit, and I realize and recognize that. However there are moments when, after expressing my desire to be called “Tess,” a Motswana will basically say, “Oh, well, I am going to call you Lorato anyway. So get used to it.” It is those moments when the cross-cultural barrier seems impossible to cross.

There is nothing that I can do to change this aspect of service or of the culture, as it is not even an issue of much importance. Luckily, I am placed in a school and if nothing else, I can require the students to call me Tess. Also, my landlord has taken to calling me “Tando,” which is a nickname for “Lorato,” and I actually kind of like it. Anyway, right now at the beginning of my fourth week, the irksomeness of “Lorato” is dimming as I find myself facing more serious issues – the ones I am here to address, such as HIV awareness and prevention. And I suppose that as long as my dear friends from home promise to always call me Tess, I can deal with losing a little bit of myself while I’m here.

What do you think? How important is your name to your identity? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Love-ingly yours,
Tess

"These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson