Henry John Amen IV

HJA

halamen

Hal

Is there a more basic possession than a name? We all have one—probably more than one. There’s your childhood nickname, the name your high school sports team gave you, your Matador profile name, the name whispered only by your lover, your super-secret pseudonym...

But even the simple names we receive at birth are subject to complexity—especially when it comes time to explain them to people from other cultures.

I noticed this when I first moved to Korea. My coworkers didn’t know I preferred “Hal” to “Henry;” I had to explain that no, my middle name is just a useless clump of letters and no one calls me “John;” god only knows why I’m #4. And it took some persuading for them to disregard the idea of “Mr. Amen.” (Or “Ms. Amen,” a couple times—gender titles and pronouns seem not to translate well.)

Of course, it worked the other way too. A handful of acquaintances introduced themselves as Alan, or Sally—adopted English names. And then Korean names came in different orders. For some, it was family name first, as is customary in Korea and the rest of the East; others switched it around to conform to Western standards.

Fortunately for me, Korean names are relatively easy to decipher, the family name typically one syllable and the given name two. Oh, and nearly half the population shares just three family names, so you start to recognize them pretty quickly.

Who knows how I would have fared had I moved to China, where family names are more varied and given names more frequently a single character. Japanese names present even greater intricacy and have an even higher chance of being reversed by their owners. Hungary, the odd-one-out of Central Europe, uses the Eastern pattern as well.

In a world where English is fast becoming the lingua franca, the urge to flip must be strong. I wonder what I would choose if our positions were reversed. Would I conform for the sake of convenience or stick with the old ways? Hal Amen, or Amen Hal?

It’s something that makes you consider your own nominal heritage. How much do you know about your family name, for instance? Most Western family names once had a very specific meaning that communicated something about the person—a profession, a place of origin, a matrilineal or patrilineal connection. Their meanings have been lost by and large, but there are Western cultures in which these traditions persist.

In Iceland, for example, there are no family names. Instead, a person’s surname comes from the given name of his or her father or mother. This system used to exist throughout Scandinavia, but only Iceland has institutionalized it. In fact, there’s actually a naming committee that has to sign off on new given names before they can be bestowed.

The same patronymic formation was true of traditional Irish names, though that country’s forced acceptance of English has largely put an end to it. Still, the best name I’ve encountered on the road so far was Irish—Feargal O’Looney.

It was a damp summer’s night in a Galway park, and my girlfriend and I were perched on a bench, trading pulls from a flask of Scotch. Feargal found us there, spouted out a charming Irish aphorism, and without much more ado he was trading us tales of Leprechauns for drinks.

Chased out of the park by a couple stern cops, we traipsed down the quaint Irish lanes, picking flowers and parading arm-in-arm. Hopping a farm field fence to try and mount horses is only the vaguest of memories. Feargal passed out on our floor, but by morning he was gone.

After Galway, we tried to find him in Limerick, knocking on a door of chipped paint that seemed to match the address he had scrawled for us on a scrap of newspaper. It was an eerie town, where the clocks chimed in minor keys and the locals all looked like they had something to hide. Feargal wasn’t there. I like to think he may never have existed.

What about you? Have you struggled with international introductions or met any Feargals in your travels?