A New Name

Christening: the purple scribbles that first transliterated “Hobson” into Mandarin.

People tended to grin upon hearing my Chinese name. It sounded considerably grander than the skinny, curly-haired geek in front of them.

I was christened by three elderly officials from the Chinese consulate in Los Angeles. A week before departure, the consulate co-hosted a banquet with my organization, during which we teachers were brought aside in little groups to be bestowed with Chinese versions of our American names. It felt a little like standing before Harry Potter’s Sorting Hat, waiting to find out what kind of name I would receive.

The process of translating American syllables into a natural-sounding Chinese name took some effort. The officials would debate which sounds and characters to use for each of the three syllables (the usual Chinese naming practice), until finally they’d nod and one man would scribble the outcome. Most of my female colleagues’ names conveyed beauty, flowers, or seasons; male names were more sporadic.

Some disagreement erupted over my name and continued for a time, the gentlemen occasionally glancing at me. Then an apparent flash of inspiration from one brought on a flurry of suggestions and beaming smiles from the others. The outcome was scrawled in purple pencil, and I was named: He Bo Sen.

Sound it out – you’ll hear the resemblance to Hobson, my American last name. He (“huh”) became my new surname – a fairly common one, they said, except that during a whole year in China I didn’t meet any other He’s. (The character for this surname 何 echoed a different character for he 河, a homonym that meant “river.”）

Bo Sen became my first name. Sen was easy – knowing I was headed to Beijing Forestry University, they used the word for “forest.” Bo, a word for “broad,” was used in the Mandarin term for “PhD” and suggested broad learning.

So there I stood: Broad Forest. (Or, by connotation, River in a Broad Forest.)

It seemed kiddish, taking on a Native American-sounding name with a cool meaning. This, however, was real. Immediately I had to practice writing it (my early attempts were clumsy) because it was required everywhere: work unit ID, health forms, record of currency exchange, train ticket receipts. It was the primary name by which I was known. For six hours of English class a day my students called me “Mr. Hobson”; everywhere else I was called either He Bo Sen or He Laoshi (“Teacher He”).

Business card front. Nearly everyone carried business cards, which they presented with both hands (not one) upon introduction. For kicks I chose the vertical format, an older practice; most had theirs printed horizontally. I also asked that the numbers be printed in ancient characters, which was never done – the Chinese used the same Roman numerals we do.

Business card back. Every business card I saw was duplicated in English on the reverse. Only when I received my printed cards did I discover that my students, who’d helped me fill out the order form, had played a little joke, using the Chinese character for “professor” as my title. (I was an instructor, not a professor.)

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