what's in a name

“When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). John 19: 14-16

Names are a powerful thing. This is evident in John, when Mary does not recognize Jesus until he calls her by name. This has always struck me—the power that is held in our name, and the identity it tightly carries.

Before coming to Malaysia I was introduced to a wonderful poem. One line really struck me--

Continue to call each other by the names I've given you, to help remember who you are.
You will get where you are going by remembering who you are.

Why would I need to keep hearing my name, to have people call me by my name?
How could I forget who I am?

We heard a lot in orientation about losing our identities within the culture. For example, we needed to be prepared that everything we had done in our lives up to this point may have no meaning in our new country. Try telling this to 50 recent college grads who have been building up their resumes for four years or more. Nevertheless, I tried to mentally prepare myself to shed the identities that had defined who I was.

When we first got to Malaysia, it seemed instead as if we were given an overarching identity to keep all of us orangputih straight. Hi, please meet Jacob, the only boy and trumpet player, this is Erika, the basketball player, this is Ellen, the ballet dancer. My whole life was boiled down to one talent that people could remember me by upon first meeting. Luckily, these identities eventually faded (and people forgot I could perform) as we got to know people and created our own communities.

Not much later on in my time here, I had another frustrating identity experience through a dinner conversation. The man sitting next to me wanted to know what my hobbies were, what I did for exercise.
“Do you jog?” he asked.
“No, I’m not really a runner,” I replied.
“Well, then you don’t exercise?”
“No, I do,” I assured him.
Knowing that I didn’t want to explain my occasional routine of Pilates or an elliptical machine back in the States, I just stated that I used to dance.
“Oh, so you’re not active,” he concluded.
We circled around in conversation as he continued to state that I did nothing, and I kept trying to describe that yes, I did many things. The problem was in the translation. Everything I had ever done (dance, theater, choir) didn’t have a meaningful translation here, and at the end of the meal, I had resigned to this man thinking I was lazy because I wasn’t a runner and didn’t play ping pong.

At orientation we also had made a list of everything we were, how we defined ourselves. On my note card I began to list-- daughter, sister, friend, problem solver, advice giver… and so on. This activity came to my mind again the other day as I thought of my new identity.

Like water seeping through the cracks in the pavement, I have slowly formed an identity here. I still remember the first day someone approached me for an English related task and the excitement I felt— I finally had a purpose, something I did, something someone saw me as! Over time, I have become an English teacher, a support system, a friend to sit next to, a listener here.

I think roles that give us an identity and a sense of purpose are an innate need. And while I'm eager to discuss my duties here, or my new-found hobbies, I’m still drawn to the identity that lies within my name.

Jesus called Mary by name. Before that point, she did not recognize him.

Being called by name is so personal. Just one word is filled with a breadth of emotions—in requests, excitement, sadness, anger, gratitude.

I remember back to my student teaching, it took me forever to not only answer to Miss Hilger, but to take it on as my own identity.

In Malaysia, my name is Teacher. Miss Ellen. Sama Ellen. Miss. Sayama. Laoshi. Chikgu. Jiejie.

The funny thing about names is they are rarely given to us by ourselves. Other people, through time, create the identity within us.

I realized today that I am afraid to lose these names. Afraid that after this year, I will never hear a subdued voice, inquiring, “Sama Ellen? Teacher?"