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Like so many other second generation Chinese Australian males, I was to be named Kevin. But if you asked my parents why, they probably wouldn’t have said “Oh, because Kevin comes from the Old Irish name Cóemgein, which itself consists of the words “coem”, meaning handsome, and “gein”, meaning birth. And that basically summarises our hopes and dreams for this child.” as an answer. No, I was to be called Kevin because it was the most Anglo-Saxon name my parents could think of. To them, Kevin was the summation of what Western civilization had to offer; the crux of what it meant to be an accepted member of White society -after all, it was one of the names they had seen so often in their English textbooks (one those inane characters who had robotic conversations like “Hello Jane, how are you?” “Hello Kevin, I am fine thank you, could you please pass me the umbrella?”). Its syllables perfectly sculpted for the English speaking mouth, Kevin was supposed to be my passport for social mobility, one that would signal to the rest of Australia that they shouldn’t fear me because I was one of them. I might as well have been born with a flashing neon sign above my head saying “DEDICATED TO BEING ASSIMILATED”. But I am not called Kevin. In an epiphany that was catalysed by what can only be described as a combination of the gnawing existential angst every new immigrant experiences, a growing disillusionment with Western society, and more importantly, the pesky “v” in the middle of Kevin which they couldn’t consistently pronounce, my parents decided to not give me an official English name. Immigration had proven to be a costly business, both economically and emotionally, and they had already lost so much. But to name their son something they couldn’t even pronounce? That would just top it off. In many ways, culture loss begins with a name; it's the look of amused disappointment Kevin He’s relatives give when they discover he only goes by Kevin, and the Yang family who becomes the Young family, first in name, and then in everything else. And yet, there is a unique beauty to Chinese names, one that partly stems from the fact that the Chinese language is written with thousands and thousands of symbols, primitive drawings which over the course of three millennia have matured to create a profoundly visual writing system. Amidst the seemingly chaotic flurry of lines which make up each symbol is a story, and it is through these stories do we learn the meaning of each symbol. Unfortunately, this beauty doesn’t translate well to the rigid, alphabetical ugliness of English - it’s hard to condense the richly layered meaning behind each symbol when you’ve only got 26 letters at your disposal. And so 抱朴 became Baopu. And Baopu became the bane of my existence for much of my childhood. Despite it all, I don’t blame all the kids at school for making fun of it. Stripped of the melodious tones of Chinese, Baopu sounds comical, like something a plumber would use to unblock a toilet, as I was once told. This attitude does not end with primary school; a recent study done by ANU has found that people with Chinese sounding names need to submit 68% more applications to get the same number of interviews as someone with an English one. It's for this reason that I reluctantly go by “Bob”, a pathetic attempt at Anglicisation, in the public sphere, lest I affront anyone with how strange my name sounds. But if only they knew what Baopu actually meant! Unlike English, a Chinese name’s meaning isn’t something hidden away in an obscure etymological tome, but is really the first thing you notice about it. When I tell a native speaker what my name is, they appreciate its beauty, marvel at its meaning, and sometimes, they sigh and wished they'd given their children a Chinese name as well. Baopu comes from the Daodejing, the holy book of Taoism written in the 6th century BC, and it means ‘to embrace the simplicity of the unhewn log’ - a lot for just two syllables, but such is the beauty of the Chinese language. The unhewn log is a metaphor for man’s most original nature, an Eastern version of tabula rasa, and in embracing it, you refuse to be swayed by any external forces because you are, as it were, resolutely yourself. Slowly, I understand why my migrant parents gave me such a name. Baopu is a testament to the sacrifices my parents have made for me, and to the beauty of my Chinese heritage. And in using it, I am determined to honour them both, even if it’s in name only. 名字的含义 就像许多其他澳大利亚出生的华人男孩一样，我曾被取名为Kevin。但如果你问我的父母为什么，他们可能说不出“哦，因为Kevin源自古爱尔兰的名字Cóemgein，它本身包括两个词”coem“，意思是英俊，”gein“，意味着诞生。这基本上寄托了我们对这个孩子的希望和梦想”这样的答案。 不，我被叫做Kevin，只是因为这是我父母所能想到的最盎格鲁 - 撒克逊化的名字。对于当时的他们来说，Kevin意味着西方文明。更为关键的是在一个公认的白人社会里，这个名字更容易被接受 - 而且，这是他们在英语课本里经常看到的一个名字（经常的场景就是：一个白痴角色像机器人一样的对话“哎，简，你怎么样？“”你好吗？Kevin，我很好，谢谢，你能将那把伞递给我吗？）Kevin的音节用英语读起来非常完美，它仿佛就应该是我生活中的护照，时刻向其他澳大利亚人表示：你们不应该对我感到异样，我就是你们的其中一员。这样从出生起，我就头顶着一块闪烁的霓虹灯标志“瞧，我已经被完美地同化了”。 但我最终没叫Kevin。 很快，就如同每一个新移民所经历的一样，在对西方社会的热情慢慢消退之后，一种外在的难以言表的烦恼就显现了。在Kevin这个名字的中间，居然有一个讨厌的字母“ v”，在中文却找不到对应的发音。我的父母最终决定不给我起一个正式的英文名字。移民本来就是一桩不菲的生意，无论在经济上或情感上都是。因为移民，父母已经失去了很多，如果还要给他们唯一的儿子取一个连自己都发不好音的名字，代价就更昂贵了。 从很多方面来讲，文化的丢失先就是从名字开始。当Kevin何的亲戚们失望地发现他只有Kevin这样一个英文名字时，当华人的杨姓变成英文的Young姓时，首先看来只是名字变了，但接着其他的一切也都会慢慢改变。 然而，中文名字有一种独特的美。中文是用成千上万的符号书写而成的，三千年前，当原始绘画逐渐成熟时，中国人的先辈就创造了一种深奥的视觉写作系统。构成每个符号的，看似混沌的线条当中，是一个个的故事，通过这些故事，我们可以学习每个符号的含义。 不幸的是，呆板的英文字母体现不了汉字的这种美丽 -当你只有26个字母时，真的很难用它们去体现每个汉字符号后面凝聚的丰富的，多层次意义。所以抱樸成Baopu，而且在我童年的大部分时间里，Baopu都给我带来了不少烦恼。 尽管这样，我并不责怪那些在学校时嘲笑过我名字的小伙伴们。离开了中文的韵律，Baopu听起来是有点滑稽。曾经有小孩跟我说，Baopu就像是一个水管工捅开堵塞的厕所时发出的声音。这种被嘲笑的状态在小学结束之后仍在延续。澳大利亚国立大学最新的一项研究发现，有中文名字的人需要多提交68％的申请，才能获得与有英语姓氏的申请人相同面试机会。正是因为这个原因，我很不情愿地接受了“Bob”这个英文名字，这是一种在英语势力范围之内争取同情的可悲尝试，其动机就是为了免得我在公开场合遭受他人的奚落：你的名字听起来有多么奇怪。 但是如果他们知道Baopu的含义之后，也许他们的看法会改变！与英语不同的是，中文名字非常直接，其含义并不是隐藏在晦涩的词源学中，而是你第一眼就能体会得到。当我告诉一些英语为母语的人士，我的名字是什么意思时，他们既欣赏其美丽，也惊叹其含义。有时，他们感叹，并希望给他们自己的孩子也取一个中文名字。 抱樸语出“道德经”，这是一本成书于公元前6世纪的道教圣典，它的意思就是“保守本真，怀抱纯朴” - 简单的两个音节蕴含着多么丰富的含义，这就是中文的美丽之所在。保守本真，怀抱纯朴是人类最原始的个性，是东方版本的tabula rasa（白板哲学）。拥抱它，拒绝任何外部力量的侵蚀，因为你就是，坚定的你自己。 慢慢地，我明白了我的移民父母为什么给我取这样一个名字。 抱樸这个名字，既见证了我父母这些第一代移民为子女所做出的牺牲，也彰显了中华传统之美丽。能取这样一个名字，注定我要努力地给它带来荣誉，即使它只是个名字而已。 |
