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?
