What’s In a Name?
Many an immigrant has modified a family name in the interest of becoming more fully accepted or assimilated into their new country. The Scots dropped the Mc, the Germans deleted their umlauts and some Poles chopped off the ski at the end. It was all about belonging, avoiding stereotyping and in more extreme cases even avoiding persecution. They didn’t come this far only to have their hopes scuttled by a few vowels, consonants or accents.
If you find yourself receiving some kind of assistance on the phone these days it might very well be originating from some call center in Bangalore, India. The cheery operators have been well trained to respond to their cultural call base and that includes appropriating the right dialect. “Yeah, sure, that makes sense. I’d be glad to help.” The slang is flipped off the tongue like it was their own. And the operators often assume fictitious phone names to remove barriers. “Hello, this is Chelsea, how can I help?” Well, Chelsea, how is the weather in Mumbai?
When the Moors occupied the Iberian Peninsula they naturally brought their Arabic names with them. In today’s Spain, as one drives down the highway and reads the road signs, there exists a curious mixture of Castilian and Arabic, and the villages that never lost their sense of history, place and people sport names that could easily be found in Tangiers or Morocco.
When North Americans travel to Spain and browse the shops of artisans or eat in family owned restaurants they are often presented with new Spanish names. “Hello, my name is Juan. How are you?” That’s fine except that Juan doesn’t look Spanish. He has Arab features and when he accidentally slips, when he doesn’t catch himself, he greets you with the deferential hand over the heart. As Juan shares his wares, or describes his family’s food, or lingers drinking strong coffee on the sidewalk, it is not only his dress that stands out, but the way he goes about his day and his living. He is a part of that rich Arab culture that brought Spain so much of its verve and vigor. He is part of the heritage that both brought and safeguarded science, art and literature for centuries. His family was the one that constructed the homes with keyhole doorways.
After a while, if no one is around and you have developed some kind of easy familiarity with Juan, you may dare to ask, “So, Juan, what is your Arabic name?” And Juan, if he feels secure with you, may say, “My real name is Amir.” And that’s exactly what happened on one hot day in the little village of Mijas.
The village is located mid-way up the southern slope of the hills that face the Mediterranean and the breezes provide some respite from the omnipresent sun. The mules await their next passengers as they stand side by side in the town square, but not even the mules are allowed up the narrow passage ways of the village, up where shops and restaurants line the vias.
Amir works at his family’s leather shop and when you watch him it isn’t hard to see how easily he interacts with his customers, those browsing the purses, coats, briefcases and leather stools. Most of all he is interested in the lives of those who enter the shop, always ready with a question about their country, language or way of life. Perhaps this is why he is such a very good salesman, because of his natural interest in others. You have the sense with Amir that pride of his product line is strong, that sales are important, but he is even more interested in the people who have come his way.
And we did buy some of the articles. When I found myself in doubt about a certain item and its cost to me, he pulled me aside for a little conversation. He spoke confidentially to me, as a friend: “If I were you I would pay a little more for this quality. Just think what a small margin that is at stake and what a huge difference that little bit will make. Trust me, in the long run this is what you really want to do.” He was good.
After the sale and after we left his shop, he continued walking and talking with us. He introduced us to his family on the way up the streets of the village. Every shop owner received a greeting. This was a community, a true village, and everyone knew everyone else. They obviously grew up together, one family knowing the next and the next. “This is my cousin. My brother runs this shop. I usually take my coffee here.”
Then there was his name, Amir. It is a name that he treasures. The root of the name is somehow related to the word trust. And so his whole name adds up to something like Amir the trustworthy. “That is who I am,” said Amir, “I am trustworthy.”
To say that one’s life somehow fulfills one’s name is daring business because there are so many ways to let down a name. What if Grace is found to be less than graceful or Mr. Strong is conspicuously weak? It’s easy to let down a name. My own name, Timothy, means lover of God. But do I really, and not merely love myself under the guise of being a lover of God?
Amir was self-consciously one with his name. “Everyone can trust me,” he said. “My family knows that I am the one they can always trust. Look, even ask my competitors. They will tell you that Amir is always to be trusted. And that’s what I do with everyone. I live in a trustworthy way and they all trust me. That’s the basis of my life.”
After lunch, as we settled into that slower, drowsy afternoon beyond the Spanish omelet and Sangria, we sat on a village wall, watching just to watch. And there came Amir, driving his car down the narrow street. Seeing us, he stopped and rolled down his window, asking if we needed anything. We didn’t and thanked him for asking. But if we had, if we had needed anything of any kind, there was one person I wouldn’t have hesitated to ask and that would have been Amir. Amir the trustworthy.
