In A Name

Every time my subconscious overhears someone saying, “Hi, Sean,” I experience a deluge of memory and nostalgia.

When Head Chef and I made our journey to China for that long week of adventure, we experienced a lot more than we realized. In the frozen Chinese North, we ate dumplings in buildings made from plywood and cloth and witnessed teams of traditional dancers on the side of the road performing for no one but themselves. But those are only the things you do and see.

We also got names. Well, at least Head Chef did. He got a name that is memorable because it sounds like English. It sounds like “Hi, Sean.” And so every time I overhear a phone conversation with a man named Sean I picture myself sitting in that hotel room in Beijing.

I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, watching as Head Chef got his name. He bounced about, not attempting to hide his enthusiasm, and it seemed as though perhaps the small room with the odd Western decor might not succeed in holding him. I remember how the rest of my family sat as they chatted with the poised Chinese girl. She perched on the edge of the bed with her two books at the ready while she worked studiously and with great humor at naming the Americans. Her posture was flawless and she seemed to be enjoying the excitement in the air. It was her first time to Beijing, too.

I didn’t get a name then. Since my own name sounds like the Mandarin word for “zombie,” I got a lot of laughs, but no real name. Not for a long time. Too long. Because terrible, terrible things befell That Lovely Chinese Girl.

From across the ocean I timidly made a desperate request. I needed that name, and I needed it before it was too late. I needed it from That Lovely Chinese Girl, or it would be useless to me. Boulanger, strong and understanding even as she braved another chapter of grief, took my message to the dying girl, and I was named.

It was a name that astonished me. Its meaning was flattering beyond all measure and the importance of it took me by such surprise that I was struck dumb. It was something to live up to. Something grand, and bold, and strong. It was as though an angel had taken me into her wings and said, “I believe in you” just before letting go. I am still humbled.

But I have lost the words. I’ve lost the paper I wrote them on, all those times. And I’ve forgotten how they are pronounced. I have forgotten my own name. But I have not forgotten how it feels to be given one that is greater than I am. It vibrates inside me like a triangle that is struck gently in a great concert hall and never stops ringing. I think that’s what you call a legacy.

So if I should catch my breath when someone nearby greets their friend Sean, it’s just the deluge washing over me. Just a memory of beauty and wisdom, and that ringing that never stops.