Knowing our names

Americans are kind of obsessed with knowing people’s names.  I found that out in the book on French culture that I read before studying in Montpellier.  Here’s a sample scenario:

An American and a French person are sitting next to each other on a train.

American: “Hi, I’m ________________!  What’s your name?  Are you enjoying this train ride? 

(...10 minutes of superficial conversation...)

American: “Oh no, I forget what you said your name was!  I’m so sorry!”

French: repeats name, inwardly thinking, I will never see you again.  Why would I try to remember your name?  And why are you making me repeat mine?

French people, and I think perhaps many other Europeans, will pay attention to the names of people only if they expect to get to know them soon.  Otherwise, they’re often fine with having a half-hour conversation with a fellow conference attendee/ backpacker/ friend of a friend without calling the other person anything but “you.”  If the relationship later becomes important, they can learn the other person’s name at that time.

On the other hand, it seems that for Americans, learning someone’s name is a gesture of respect.  If you know someone’s name, you can be more personal.  It’s a way to acknowledge, “Even if I don’t know you well, you are not anonymous.”  And so, even if only for a little while, we tend to make the effort to learn the names of the people we’re addressing.  First names, that is.  Maybe because our culture is so individualistic, last names don’t tend to matter until much later.  

(Interestingly, in class the other day, my Korean student told me, “Korean culture is more logical.   We put the year first, then the month, then the day, just like we put the family name before the individual’s name.”  That seems to fit Korean culture, where the community and family are more significant in determining a person’s identity than his or her individual traits.)

Khmer culture, and many other Asian cultures, treat names much differently than US culture does.  You don’t have the right to just call somebody by his or her first name.  Instead, you need to use a title: Auntie, Younger (brother/sister), Grandfather, Niece.  To show respect, there’s also a lot more Mr./Mrs., even by adults to other adults they know.  It’s possible to use their name after the title, especially if you’re trying to distinguish between people: Auntie Thida vs. Auntie Voleak.  But often, the title alone suffices.  I’m torn on this practice.  It’s kind of fun referring to everyone as your relative, and it’s much easier than struggling to learn thousands of variations on names that may sound similar to my ears.  But I wonder, does it cheapen the titles of your *actual* relatives to refer to them the same way you refer to the guy who pumps your gas?

As a result, there are lots of people whose names I just don’t know, even if I chat with them regularly.  Every motodup or tuk-tuk driver is automatically “Bhou” (uncle), even if they’re around my age.  (“Bong,” or older brother, is reserved for your husband unless you follow it with a first name like Bong Kosal.)  The woman who cleans my classroom is just “Ming” (Auntie).  I chat weekly with the vendors who have sold me fruit, eggs, and vegetables the past few years, but I still only know them as Ming, Oun (younger), and Bong Srey (older sister). 

As an American, I feel bad about it, like I don’t value them enough to learn their names.  But it’s so common among Khmer people too.  My friend went to a wedding with a Khmer friend who knew all the other guests from church, but didn’t know most people’s names, despite several years of worshipping alongside them and building relationships with them.  This can make phone contact lists look interesting.  It can also make it tricky to talk about other people:

“Ming told me…”

“Ming who?”

“You know, Ming with three little kids, who sells watermelons at the Toul Kork market…”

The other complicating factor is that names aren’t necessarily a constant identifier from birth.  Nicknames here are so common – both to shorten names (Sokunthea => Kunthea, Vichika => Ka), and to replace names.  So I know a girl whose name is Socheata, but all her friends and family call her Noich (preceded by Bong/Oun, depending on their age relative to her).  Another girl, while in high school, lost the school identity card that she needed to attend public school.  Her friend was moving away, and gave her her old identity card.  In an instant, Srey Mao became known as My.  Now around age 30, with a husband and baby, everyone still knows her as My.  From my perspective, it’s a much more laid-back approach to people’s names.

Sometimes it can seem quite depressing through American eyes.  My friend Leanne works in a fishing village with kids who were out of school for a while.  The catch-up school they attend provides them with uniforms, but they have to be measured first to find their sizes.  By the time the uniforms arrive, there’s always some confusion about which uniform is meant for which child.  Why?  Because the children have forgotten the names they gave when they were measured, only a week or two earlier.  What’s it like not to know your own name?

Leanne says, in most of their homes, they’re just referred to as Oun (younger/child) over and over again.  They rarely hear their names, only "Hey, kid," and their family may not even remember the specific name (or names) chosen for that child.  They’re just one of hundreds of Ouns, running around the village.  It’s part of a bigger, darker issue in that community and other impoverished areas across Cambodia. Children’s rights are so little understood or valued that many parents have even sold one of their Ouns to a human trafficker.  An Oun for a flat-screen TV or a shiny new motorcycle.  Which Oun?  We’re not sure, but no worries, we’ve got more.  That’s why Leanne chose this particular village, to help parents and children understand the sacredness of human life: the dignity inherent in being human, in being image-bearers of the living God.

Which name determines your identity?  American culture values first names.  Korean culture values last names.  Khmer culture values relationship titles.  But the Bible values God’s name most.  He has many names that reflect the sparkling kaleidoscope of His attributes, and His name identifies those who belong to Him.  In Isaiah 43, God reminds us of His love for us and promises to be faithful and good in hard times.  He says,

“Do not be afraid, 

for I am with you;
    I will bring your children from the east
    and gather you from the west…
Bring my sons from afar
    and my daughters from the ends of the earth—
everyone who is called by my name,
    whom I created for my glory,
    whom I formed and made.” (verses 5-7)

His Name transcends cultures to identify us more thoroughly than any other name could.  It names us as: 
   His children, 
     created with purpose, 
       protected in troubles, 
         displaying His beauty, 
           loved and accepted.  

What better name could we have?