What’s in your name? Plenty!
I have a friend whose Armenian name is Hampartzoum. Nobody calls him that, not even his own family and the mother who gave him that name.
They call him Harry.
Another guy I know is named Hamazasp. What do you think they call him? Bud.
People who usually address you as Buddy or Pal are not being overfriendly. They’ve just forgotten your name or have difficulty pronouncing it.
The more I’m exposed to nomenclature these days, the more I’m surprised by people’s names. I’m not talking surnames here. I’m referring to first names. And some of these ethnic names require a speech therapist.
A quick check on the “net” shows that Noah is the most popular boys’ name and Sophia heads the girls’ list. Two beautiful names, no doubt.
I know two Noahs. One who built the ark that landed on Mount Ararat, according to the Book of Genesis. The other is a student of mine who worships his name and defends any mockery.
A niece of mine named her daughter Sophia and I’ve grown quite attached to it.
I have to scroll down to 61st place before I find a Thomas. My wife Nancy didn’t even make the top 100. Emma, Olivia, Chloe are well ahead of her.
In case you’re interested, Noah is followed closely by Liam. I do not know a single Liam. But I do know a Rocco, Rex, Masie, and Mila. They are the names of four grandchildren on one side, joined by Maya and Benjamin on another. That makes six.
Rex is my dinosaur kid. He’s going through life as T-Rex. Walk into his room and he’s got a tyrannosaurus on his wall. One day at Storyland, they had a large amphibian waiting for someone’s head to be photographed. The youngster fit the bill nicely.
We had a recent catastrophe around here. After ordering a placemat for each of the kids, we inadvertently misspelled Masie’s name. What turned out was “Maise.”
How could we botch that up? Probably the same way our son Ara went through his Little League life as Ira. And our Sonya was spelled any other which way: Sona. Sonia. Sonja. Of course, the accepted Armenian way is Sonya and nothing else, unless you went with Sona.
My youngest son was named after the prominent writer Raffi, maybe because I thought he’d become one like me. Not that I’m prominent by any stretch. But it had a nice ring to it.
The poor kid had his share of grief in the outside world. They called him Raf and Ruff. He lived with it.
I’m a big fan of ethnic name—to a point. For another former student of mine who went through life as Aghavny, I was almost sympathetic toward her.
“How have you managed with your name?” I asked her one day.
“Very nicely,” she answered. “Nobody gets it right so I just accept that.”
My sister-in-law is named Ishqouhi. A mouthful to be sure. We call her “Ish.”
Many of her letters are addressed to Mister, thinking she’s a male. One day she received a draft notice in the mail and headed straight for Social Services to plead her case. The story gets better.
When outsiders call or she makes car appointments, she refers to herself as Irene.
“It’s much easier that way,” she explains. “By the time they get through it on the telephone, it becomes an ordeal.”
Genocide survivors entering this country were not only told to relinquish their names but their identity as well. One—Krikor Yedejanian—had a night school application in his hand to learn English. The teacher said to him the first day of class, “Change your name to John or Joseph. You’re in America now.” He was a cousin of mine.
He did the unthinkable and shortened his surname to Janian. Little did he realize that Greg Janian was also the name of a local musician in town, and quite often they would get each other’s calls.
“Oh, are you band player?” they would ask him.
“No. I’m the wood carver. Would you like a dollhouse or a clock?”
What’s in a name? Plenty if you were Paul Boucher and you lived in my city. He happened to reside next to another namesake. Two by the very same name living as neighbors. One was a businessman. The other impersonated Santa Claus and rode around in a Model-T Ford. They used to get each other’s mail and calls all the time until one passed away.
Years ago, on the anniversary of the death of John F. Kennedy, I actually found another by the same name living in my community. So what’s it like having the name of a prominent United States president?
“It was an honor I learned to resent,” he told me.
I am deeply dismayed that anyone with the beautiful name of Hamazasp would be addressed by Bud. In my father’s diaries of the Armenian Genocide, Hamazasp Shahinian of Haksdoun of Kghi was a staunch fedayi who volunteered his own life again and again in order to save the lives of countless villagers. He was my father, Misak Seferian’s very close friend all through the resistance battles of 1915 – 1922. They were two young boys who grew up on the battlefields in defense of their homeland. Remarkably, they both survived. Every Hamazasp can be proud of his name. Hamazasp Shahinian of Haksdoun of Kghi gives him reason to know that it is a name worthy of great honor. It signifies courage and sacrifice and loyalty and faithfulness. Watch for my father’s writing to be published soon. Resistance: a diary of the Armenian Genocide 1915 -1922.
Tom: My dear friend, who was given the same beautiful name as your sister-in-law, Ishquouhi, was called Esther. The name Ishquouhi has a melodious syllabic rhythm to it that “Esther” simply cannot match. Ishquouhi was always very proud of her name and regretted that it was seldom used. Her family also came from Haksdoun of Kghi, and she yearned to go there, but could not find it on any map. The turks had changed her village name. However, my father wrote about his friend Hamazasp’s village in his diaries and said that the church in the area was called St. Garabed. Armen Aroyan was able to find Haksdoun and take her there. Ishquouhi knew about Hamazasp, and when she was there, she called out his name across the fields of his home and remembered him there in her prayers. She was the very last descendant to be able to go to Haksdoun of Kghi. The turks flooded the village very shortly afterwards. Haksdoun no longer exists by any name. And Ishquouhi died just a few months later. When Armen wrote to me after her death, we both rejoiced that she had made the trip back home, back to Haksdoun of Kghi, before time itself was no more.
“My Name is Aram” by William Saroyan
Thought I would throw that in for fun.
Nice article.
Do you have a pen name?
How many people would recognize my first name of “Ezan?” Not many, I am sure. My father, who was an ardent Dashnak and a member of the Armenian Legion during WWI, gave me that name.
The name comes from an Armenian revolutionary song sung by Armenak Shah Mouradian (or Shamouradyan) and recorded in the 1920’s. The song is ‘Bam Porodan”. There is a refrain towards the middle of the song that goes “Ezan-e-veraj, aratch, aratch”. Translated, it is “to arms, revenge, forward, forward”. If you go on YouTube and type in his name, you can hear the song. In grade school, I had many a fight with kids that would tried to taunt me by saying, “Ezian the Armenian”. They were Italian kids from an all Italian neighborhood where we lived. It was funny because their names were Francesco, Luigi, etc. I have always been proud of my name. I married an Armenian girl and have three sons with Armenian names of Ara, Shahe’ and Raffi.
Ezan Bagdasarian