Dreaming in Chinese (11 page)

China has some odd-seeming traditions about first names. Chinese babies are often named impersonally, after timely events or milestones. During the year of China’s first space launch, a lot of babies were named
Wèixīng,
meaning “satellite.” After the earthquake of 2008, they were named
Zhèn shēng
, meaning “born during the earthquake.” Before the Olympics, more than 3,500 Chinese babies were named Aoyùn, meaning “Olympics.”

During the Mao era, self-consciously loyal names were the rage:
Yǒnghóng
(“forever red”); Jiànguó (“build the country”);
Aipíng
(“love peace”);
Jiànmín
(“build the people”). More recently, serious policy-minded parents who followed the 11th National People’s Congress named their children after some big issues:
Shèbǎo
or “social security,” or
Mínyì
, which means “public opinion,” and
Héxié
which means “harmony.”

Chinese can be very superstitious about names. One of my friends had a boyfriend when she was young, whose parents, according to a peasant custom, chose a powerful name intended to ward off
guǐ
, or evil spirits. His name was
Fènduī
meaning “pile of shit.”

The names of orphans are interesting. In the past they were processed with a blunt bureaucratic impersonality; children were often assigned a surname from the place where they were born. Children from
Guǎngzhōu
were named
Guǎng
; those from
Shēnzhèn
were named
Shēn
. Others were given “favorable” names like
Hóng
, meaning “red.” Then some people worried about the disadvantage of being so easily identified and branded for life as an orphan. So orphanages began naming the babies
Wáng
, and
Chén
, some of China’s most popular names, so the kids would blend in better.

Obvious problems arise when over a billion people share 100 family names. I still don’t understand, for example, how it can possibly help to identify people by last name only, as newspapers always do. “A 35-year old man, surname
Wáng
, was arrested for blackmailing his girlfriend.”

To help keep each other straight, the Chinese follow a few customs. Titles are important:
Chén Lǎoshī
, or Teacher
Chén
;
Huáng Hùshi
, or Nurse
Huáng
;
Lǐ Yīshēng
, or Doctor
Lǐ; Zhāng Sījī,
or Driver
Zhāng
;
Zhōu Shīfu
, or Master Worker
Zhōu
, a respectful title for electricians and mechanics.

Nicknames help, too. Many of these are hold-overs from that first month before the parents could decide what to actually name their babies. Others, either cruel or affectionate, are picked up in grade school, like in every other country. Within families, children are often just called big brother (
gēge
), little sister (
mèimei
) and so on.

Most Chinese whom Westerners meet will also have an English name. This makes it easy on us, and the Chinese seem to like it, too. Hotels usually give English names to the housekeepers and doormen. Tour guides, upscale shopkeepers and drivers have them, too. English teachers name their students, with varying results. Some are classic names like Catherine, Anna, Edward, Peter. Some are cute names, Kitty, Jacky, Sunny, Candy. Some are more interesting like Isaac, Kaiser, Hermes, Elvis, Felix. There are a few signs of English-teacher revenge: Winkie and Cutie.

A lot of young people told me they named themselves for characters in movies or books: Rocky cut my hair. He is from
Guangdong
, reputedly a hairstyling capital of China, although in truth, anytime I emerged from a hair salon not completely dissolved in tears, I considered that a good haircut. Rocky is a dreamer; he stands about 5' 5" and weighs in at about 115 pounds. There are numerous Winnies (as in Pooh). And Emmas.

Many girls I knew named themselves for the sound of a word; one named Rain is a romantic kind of girl. Others because they like the thing it stands for; a girl named Apple likes apples.

Benjamin told me that multisyllable names are all the rage for guys now. His friends went online and came up with Christopher, Timothy and Nathaniel.

When foreigners become really popular in China, the Chinese will try to devise some rendition of their names that works:

Obama
:
The US embassy uses
ōu bā mǎ
,
while the Chinese press renders it
ào bā mǎ
.

Michael Phelps
:
fēi ěr pǔ sī
works not so well.

Bush
: bù shí
and Reagan
:
lǐ gēn
are OK
.

Shakespeare
:
shā shì bǐ yà
is not.

Place names sound like so much mumbo-jumbo:

Los Angeles is
luò shān jī.

New York is
niǔ yuē.

Hollywood is
hǎo lái wù
.

At my tiny neighborhood beauty shop in Beijing, a new girl appeared one day by the name of
Xiǎo Xuē. Xiǎo
rhymes with “meow,” like a kitten’s cry. And
Xuē
sounds like “shway.” Lots of girls have
Xiǎo
, which means “little,” as part of their name.

All the other girls in this shop had English names, like Lily and Ruby. They all lived together, ate noodles together, gossiped about city boys, and went back to their home village during the New Year holidays to see their parents, who were generally not happy their daughters had fled for the big city. They told me that in their free time, they liked to go window-shopping. Most wore jeans and T-shirts from the cheap markets. They spent their earnings on sequined sandals and high-heeled boots. They painted their own nails in shimmery colors, and when business was slow, they also painted flower designs on the faces of their mobile phones, which rang constantly with snippets of pop music. These girls were my channel to young Chinese cool.

Xiǎo Xuē
was very awkward and shy at first. She tripped over the three-legged stools where the girls sat to do nails, necessitating any number of touch-ups. She refilled cups of hot water or tea for customers and stood against the wall, then later inched right up close to the customers to study and learn the trade. After a few weeks, the other girls decided
Xiǎo Xuē
was ready and assigned her to me. I am sure I was her first client. She was really, really slow.

When I asked
Xiǎo Xuē
if she had an English name like the other girls, she shot me a silent look—reminding me instantly that she was fresh from
Shanxi
, a poor, dismal, coal-mining province—that said: “How in the world would I have gotten an English name?” When I asked her if she would like to have one, she nodded yes right away.

I considered names that sounded kind of like her own: Sharon, Sandy, Sasha.
Xiǎo Xuē
listened and without hesitating even a second, said Sasha. That is how
Xiǎo Xuē
became my responsibility and how I gave her the name she might use for the rest of her working life.
Xiǎo Xuē
now had one foot in the traditional old China where she was born, and Sasha had the other foot in the new, global world whose reach includes even a small beauty shop in Beijing.

Dōngběi
Eastnorth

7.
Finding your way in China—the semantics of time and place

F
ROM OUR 22ND-FLOOR
apartment in Shanghai, I could peer down at the troupes of early risers practicing tai chi in the park. I studied them with my binoculars each morning for several weeks, searching for a small group that looked like they might be sympathetic to my stepping in alongside them.

I spied one possibility: a cluster of about ten men and women who, like most who practice tai chi, looked to be in their seventies and who somehow struck me as accepting. This was their daily ritual: One thin man, clearly their leader, rode up on his Flying Pigeon bicycle. He took his old-fashioned tape player from the bike basket and placed it on the low wall of the small esplanade. The others slowly gathered around chatting for a few moments. Then the thin man took out his tape, put it in the machine and clicked play. On that signal, everyone claimed a spot and the practice began.