Over the last 50 years, the names people choose for their
children, and the names some people give themselves, have changed
dramatically.
When my father was born in 1923, his family consulted a friend
knowledgeable in choosing names. He suggested 'Kuan Yew', which
means 'brightness' in Hokkien.
My great-grandfather was awed by the British and added 'Harry'
to my father's name. Because his name appeared as 'Harry Lee Kuan
Yew' on his birth certificate, when he graduated from Cambridge
University and later from Middle Temple, he could not persuade
either institution to drop 'Harry' from his university degree or
his certificate as Barrister-at-law.
In 1950, he managed to arrange for himself to be called to the
Singapore Bar as just 'Lee Kuan Yew', sans 'Harry'. 'Lee Kuan Yew'
thus became his public persona. To this day, only family members
and a few very close friends call him 'Harry'.
My brothers and I have no ang moh name. My parents were not
literate in Chinese when we were born, so my father approached a
court interpreter he knew to give him some names to choose
from.
My name, 'Wei Ling', means 'the sound of tinkling jade'. My
parents did not foresee that I would grow up to be a tomboy who
would join the army cadets in secondary school, where my loud and
resonant voice was deemed appropriate for a parade commander.
'Wei Ling' is a very common name for Chinese girls. When I try
to sign up for electronic journals on the Internet, and the system
prompts me for a user name, I try all possible permutations of my
name, including 'Li', 'Weiling' or 'Wei-Ling'. Alas, I invariably
find they have all been taken by others. Exasperated, I would
sometimes try 'Lee Hsien Yang', and the system would immediately
accept it.
Throughout my years in school, from kindergarten to
pre-university, all my friends had only Chinese, Malay or Indian
names. When I was in medical school and during my early years of
postgraduate training, the only Westernised names were the
Christian names of those who were actually Christian.
By the late 1980s, however, non-Christian Chinese began to have
Westernised names and often did not use their Chinese names at all.
The trend was initially subtle and I had assumed that those with
Westernised names were all Christians. It was only when I needed to
write a cheque to a friend and I was told, 'don't include my
Western name, just write 'Tan Chee Beng'' or whatever, did it dawn
on me that the Western names were not official.
My brothers chose not to give their children any Western names.
One
nephew, when he was in school, asked his parents' permission to
adopt a Western name. His
mother Ho Ching told him: 'In China, only waiters and waitresses
use Western names.' My father also explained how 'Harry'
became part of his name and how he tried to remove
it.
To date, none of my nephews or niece has a Western name.
I trained in Boston from 1981 to 1984, and in Toronto in 1992. I
kept my Chinese name throughout and told those who had difficulty
remembering my name just to call me 'Lee'.
To my close childhood friends and my family, I am just 'Ling'. I
still think 'tinkling jade' hardly reflects my nature. To those who
know me, 'Wei Ling' perhaps conjures up a very different image from
that of tinkling jade.
I am glad that Malays and Indians rarely give or adopt Western
names - unless they are Christians, in the case of the Indians. I
guess there is still a strong anti-colonial instinct in me that
leads me to abhor any attempt by people in former colonies to adopt
the names of their past colonial masters.
In the book The Narcissism Epidemic by Jean M. Twenge and
W. Keith Campbell, there is a chapter on 'Uniqueness'. They
write: 'The biggest trend in baby names recently isn't a particular
name; it's that fewer children receive common names.
'The Social Security Administration has compiled a database of
the names given to every American child born since 1879. Half the
boys born in 1946 received one of the top 23 names. Back then,
naming a child was about belonging and fitting in instead of
uniqueness and standing out...
'But over the last few decades, parents, tired of common names,
wanted something unique for their children. At first it was a slow
progression: As late as 1987, 3 per cent of boys were named Michael
and 3 per cent of girls were named Jessica, with one out of five
boys and one out of six girls receiving one of the 10 most popular
names.
'Then, during the 1990s, unique names caught fire and fewer and
fewer children received the most popular name for their sex, and
only one out of 11 boys and one out of 12 girls went by a name in
the top 10...
'Now it is considered better to stand out as an individual and
be 'unique'. In fact, 223 babies born in the 1990s in California
were named Unique, with some parents putting teeth into it with
names like Uneek, Uneque or Uneqqee...
'Unique spellings are also trendy: Why name a child Michael or
Kevin when they can be Mychal or Kevyn?'
The same trend can be observed in Singapore, especially among
the Chinese. An example I came across recently here of a thoroughly
made-up, 'uneqqee' name was 'Evetor'.
I asked a Malay friend whether there has been a similar trend
among Malay names. She replied: 'Most Malay names have either
Arabic or Sanskrit roots and some are drawn from Malay literature.
When I was younger, many more Malays had simpler names. Now you
find a whole generation growing up with multiple names, not just a
simple Fatimah or plain Aminah. Instead, it will be Fatimah Nadia
Trina, or Natasha Atiqa, et cetera.
'What you will notice about these new fashionable names is that
they are a blend of Western and Islamic names,' my friend told
me.
I view this new trend of choosing Westernised unique names as
another example of the narcissistic epidemic. I feel that if you
need a name to distinguish yourself, you or your parents probably
have a chip on your or their shoulder, combined with a cultural
inferiority complex.
The writer is director of the National Neuroscience
Institute.
