The Silent Signs You Belong
Hey! The Ethiopian Zara, come thru now!
There is so much to a name. Names oftentimes hold the key to our history, our lineage, and our stories of our origin. It is a window into our cultures and our parents’ mindset when we were born. Call me superstitious, but I will even avoid people with certain names.
Real talk, there is nothing that says, “I know you, I understand your culture, we come from the same world” as hearing your name and hearing it pronounced correctly. As the daughter of immigrants in the United States, I grew up constantly hearing my family members’ names butchered. In fact, the only thing worse was hearing their names involuntarily abbreviated to a more Western one. Everyone knows an Abebe named “Abe” or a Dinkinesh named “Dina.” As a matter of fact, I have an uncle whose nickname is Jim. Let’s just say his real name is nowhere near Jim. I suppose Uncle “Jim” yielded to Jim because it was better to stomach than a horrid mispronunciation of his actual name.
I distinctly remember this one time my family and I went to a restaurant in Queens, NY for my mom’s birthday. It was a phenomenal Caribbean spot: one of those restaurants that turns into a live music and dance venue at night. Going to this restaurant was the only time I got insight into club life and I just couldn't wait to experience a real club with people my age. Anyway, once the live music started, the musicians generally accommodated birthday dedication requests.
That night of my mom’s birthday, a 13-year-old me confidently strolled up to the band and asked that they sing the Happy Birthday song for my mom, “Wagaye” whose name loosely translates to, “my prize (for my good deeds).” While this was more than two decades ago, I distinctly remember slowly and deliberately pronouncing “Wah-Gah-Yay” to the singers. The bedazzled lead singer who looked like a Diana Ross clone assured me that we were good to go. They’d wish my “beautiful mom” a very happy birthday.
Imagine my horror when, 45-minutes into the live music, the Happy Birthday song is on full blast, and the lead singer belts out, “Happy BURRRTHDAYYY DEAR WIG-AWAY….” Teenage me was mortified, but my mom took it like a champ, smiling coyly despite the verbal butchering of her identity.
Another naming mishap came with my own. Shortly before I was born, and after much deliberation (from what I’m told), my parents decided to name me Marta, which is a rather common yet modern Ethiopian name. Apparently in the 1980s in New York City, hospital nurses filled out the paperwork on the mother’s behalf. Not bothering to clarify the spelling, the nurse spelled my name with an “H.” So I went from Marta –a lyrical poetic and free-spirit who spends half the year in Costa Rica— to Martha –a 78-year old woman who crotches with Margaret and Beatrice when she’s not spending time with her husband Harold. As soon as I was old enough to rename myself, I chose to go with Marti, my nickname, and it stuck. Anyone who calls me “Martha” either 1) doesn’t know me well enough, 2) is a customer service representative, or 3) is my best friend Brittany.
Living in Ethiopia has been refreshing for many reasons but one of the biggest has been hearing your name pronounced correctly, and seeing signs everywhere donning your, or your family members’ names. I mean, wow. Over here, we don’t have to adopt Jim to feel a sense of belonging. Over here, our names and surnames are everywhere. On logos, on street signs, on billboards. Government representatives have the names Tesfaye and Gizaw. People know the art of properly nicknaming you or calling your name affectionately. The same way a Robert is nicknamed “Bob,” a Marta is nicknamed “Marti” and people just know that here.
I almost choked on my water with delight when a new-ish employee called my husband, “Betriye” in casual conversation and pronounced it with more of an Ethiopian accent than my husband puts on his own name. And perhaps, that has been one of the warmest ‘welcomes’ we have ever received.