‘Tell Me Your Name, You’re Lovely, Please Tell Me Your Name’

Neil Romano. Donna Bella. John Paulo. Raphael Francis. Maita Cristina.

I wonder how my cousins and my own brother think—or feel—about their names. 

Each of them was given two beautiful names, but they would just be called   one name—either their first or their second name.

In fact, they have also been called other names. Neil Romano (born 1969) later became Neil. But affectionately, to us he has always been “Áno”, a diminutive of Románo.

 From Donna Bella (born 1973), they chose Donna. But then again, it has always been “Nang-nang”—with her younger siblings, too, being called Ding-ding, Kling-kling and Don-don, who have since called her “Manangnang”— most likely from “Manay Nang-nang”.

 Also, John Paulo (born 1978), named after the pope, became only Paulo—but fondly now, “Pau”.

 Raphael Francis (born 1980) became Francis. But fondly, too, he has always been “Pangkoy” to us.

 And Maita Cristina, born 1985, yes, on a Christmas Day, became simply Maita, cleverly drawn from that of our lola, Margarita.

Why is it that despite the two names given to people, there is always one active name that replaces them—most likely the one that their parents or their folks chose or still gave them?

 Of course, there’s a story behind each name—about how they were named but I’m sure there’s a juicier story of how they were also nicknamed—or how that single, active name came to be and has been used ever since.

 Did you notice that only in Mexican soap operas—and later Filipino telenovelas—can we hear two names being seamlessly, rather dutifully, used when they are addressed, as in: “Maria Mercedes”, or “Carlos Miguel” or “Julio Jose”?

“Mara Clara”. What did you say—“Maria Clara”?

 Of course, there are exceptions. Take the case of Von Carlo. Or Sarah Jane. Or Lyn Joy (Wow… I cannot think of a sweeter name than this.)

 But each of these two-name names is already too short to be cut further or even dropped. In fact—easily they can be turned into one: Jennylyn, Genalyn, Ednalyn. Julieanne. Maryanne. Carolyn. Carol Lyn?

 Or Larryboy. Or Dannyboy. Dinosaur (from Dino Sauro?).

 So is it for brevity, then? After all, I think that first names are tags (as in katawagan and therefore pagkakakilanlan) of persons, so does it really help that they are short, as in monosyllabic? The shorter or the faster the register, the better—is that it?

 Others are also given three first names or more, as in: Jose Francis Joshua.

 Allen Van Marie. Francis Allan Angelo.

 Maria Alessandra Margaret.

 Why? They are so named because their parents want to honor their folks—aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents by giving them a string of their names.

 In the case of some Jose Felicisimo Porfirio Diaz, a.k.a. Bobong, who was named from his uncle and great-grandfather, we could easily guess what happened here. The kilometric name just didn’t really sit well—probably pissed his other folks off, who then argued with his parents but luckily agreed and settled for a simpler one: Bobong!

 How about Jose Antonio Emilio Herminigildo? Sounds like two persons already. Takes a lot of effort.

 So why do parents name their children the way they do? How do they (come to) do it? Are they inspired by their personal heroes? Idols? The stars of their own lives?

 Personal heroes? I already said that. So, there.

 Parents name their children based on inspiration—to immortalize not only their origins, their parents but also their aspirations and ideals.

 Then again, some of them name their offspring to immortalize only themselves: Romeo Agor I, Romeo Agor II, Romeo Agor III, etc. Just like royalty.

 But seriously, I admire how people in the past were so beautifully named—by being given only one name:

 Emiliano. Why is this name so beautiful? It doesn’t evoke sadness. Neither does it invoke anything unattractive. It doesn’t mean a lot of things but itself.

 Margarita. Of course it means something based on its origin. But I choose to look past its etymology and just see it as it is.

 Why do these four-syllable names sound so beautiful? They’re not magical; they’re just beautiful to hear. They do not mean a lot of things but themselves.

 They’re just perfect.

Each of them has four syllables so that when you say them, they sound like two names already in modern parlance, each with two syllables.

 

So while some parents worry about giving their children two or three names or even more, I think that they overlook the beauty of giving their child one, single name. As in:

 

Ofelia.

Salvador. Edmundo.

Antonio.

Camilo. Alberto.

Rosita. Or Zenaida.

 Really here, simplicity is beauty.

 Hearing these names or reading them on the page, I seem to hear or feel the wish of the parents when they so name their child with just one name, as if to speak of their only wish for them in life.

 It’s like: one name, one wish—only goodness and nothing else:

 Flordeliza.

Dorotea.

Isabel.

Lydia.

Romana.

Teresita. Liduvina.

Imelda. Angelita.

Agaton.

Aurelia. Alma.

Gina. Amelita.

Belen. Delia.

Inocencio.

Mercedita. Zarina. Maida.

Carmelita. Belinda. Elisa.

 Emma.

 For me, giving them more than one name means something else altogether. “Maria Teresita” sounds overdone. “Luz Imelda” might work—sounds good—but not as plainly as just, “Imelda”. Then, honestly, “Roberto” or “Francisco” sounds better than “Francisco Roberto”. I don’t know why.

 I also wonder why a four- or five-syllable name sounds strong. Intact or solid. Strong-willed.

 Bersalina. Bienvenido. Aideliza. Plocerfina.

 And why do these names with three syllables sound so wonderful? Macário. Terésa.

 Wait, Tibúrcio. Dionísia. Glória.

 Ramón. Rosalía.

 Why does it sound like poetry? Soledád. Like beauty? Rafaél.

 How often, too, through names, have we looked to the heavens for inspiration—invoking not only blessing but guidance in our lives!

 Anunciacion, Visitacion, Encarnacion, Purificacion, Asuncion, Coronacion—all derived from the mysteries in the Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

 A Catholic boy may be named Resurreccion, obviously to invoke the Saviour’s triumph over death. Among many others, parents would choose it. For one, it sounds very much like Victor. Or Victorino. But Victorioso?

 And while others were named Dolores or Circumcision, why are there no women or men named Crucificcion? Obviously, because we do not want to dwell in the bad side of things.

 We do not want any association with the undesirable things like suffering or misery. Or death.

 On the contrary, naming your child Maria or Jose or Jesus—a very common practice—is more than reassuring; for you literally consecrate them back to the Creator, fully acknowledging Him as the only Source of all life.

 Manuel. Emmanuel.

 Manuelito. Manolito. Manolo. Variants of the same wish. Same aspiration. 

 Jose. Josue. Joselito. Joselino. Jocelyn. Joseline. Josephine. Josefa. Josette. It’s quite a different name, but the aim is the same.

 Mario. Marianne. Mary Ann. Mariano. Mariana. Marianita. Marion. Same invocation. Same prayer.

 Maria Emmanuelle.

Jose Maria Emmanuelle. Like Jejomar (Jesus, Jose, Maria or if you want, Jesus Joseph Mary.)

 Naming your child in this fashion is giving more than paying tribute to the Highest One. It is the noblest gesture you can make, the highest kind of praise you can give to God, as it were.

 And then—Rosario. Probably the holiest of all.

 Were Spanish names once highly favored because they are highly allegorical, connoting the good things life? As in—Paz (peace), Constancia (constancy), Esperanza (hope), Remedios (remedy) and Consuelo (consolation)?

 While boys were named Serafin or girls Serafina—after the archangels Miguel, Rafael and Gabriel became too common—I think no parent would name their child Querubin, probably fearing that he or she would be as childish as impressionable if not as vulnerable or as unfortunate. Probably there is—but that’s too uncommon.

 And if you name your children in your clan Dorcas, Jona, Joshua, Abner, Abel or Nathaniel—obviously you know your Bible well. It means you don’t just let it sit on the altar for ages. Clearly, you must have been inspired not just by the Good News, but the Old Testament. It’s just hard not to associate these names with people who lived in the past. Picking all these names simply reflects a religious sensibility.

 Well, naming your child Primitivo or Primitiva lacks knowledge on your part. The Spanish name must have been assigned by the colonizers to the natives out of disgust—without the latter knowing what it meant. How the given name had survived through the generations is simply puzzling.

 Well, the same fate will befall you if you choose Moderna, but why does Nova—also meaning “new”—sound more acceptable? Hmm. Is it because it’s now Italian?

 Why can’t we name our girls Jane Karen, or Joan Jennifer—five syllables. Obviously because each of these names is already solid or full by itself. But why does it work with Sheryl Lyn or Sarah Jane? Frank Daniel or Billy Joe? Or Kyla Marie? Lyn Joy (really, it’s just beautiful). I explained this already.

 While a co-worker back in Iloilo has well thought of naming their children Payapa, Sigasig and Biyaya, some literary sensibilities name their children really as a poet would title their poem, or as a novelist would call their magnum opus: Marilag. Makisig. Maningning.

 Lakambini. Awit. Diwa.

 Angela. Kerima. Priscilla. Mirava. Anya.

 Dulce Maria.

 But no writer in his “write” mind would name their beloved child Luksa or Dusa. Or Daluyong or Kutya or Dagsa.

 “Sofia” is a favorite—nobody would turn away or turn away from wisdom.

 Shakespeare. Ophelia. Cordelia. Miranda. Tibaldo. Mercusio. Very rare.

 Misteriosa? Well, some women are named Gloriosa. I know a Glorioso. But why not Misteriosa? Misterioso. Is it not stating the obvious?

 And unless she has gone crazy, no mother would pick Thanatos, Persephone or Hades from her memory of Greco-Roman history.

 Persephone has come to be Proserfina, or Plocerfina with a variant Plocerfida, still uncommon. Orfeo is a beautiful name for a boy—as it is sad. And Eurydice? You must be very morbid. Try Eunice—although later on, she will be called “Yunise” by the folks in your barangay.

 Naming her Venus or Aphrodite is fair enough. Just do not pair them for one person—or else.

 I know of a well-known family from the highlands whose children’s names are Athena, Socrates, and Archimedes. They hail from the upland Buyo, a sitio adjacent to our barangay Bagacay, where they must have not only witnessed but also created their own Mount Olympus. Amazing!

 I wonder why Nestor has even become very popular here locally, sounding even more Filipino when it is originally Greek. Homer is not, or Homar. But Omar? Omar is very common. Omar Shariff? Or Omar Khayyam?

 And why does Hermes sound so high-brow? Hermes Diaz. Hermes Rodriguez. Hermes Sto. Domingo. But why not Mercurio? The latter is an actual family name, not a given name.

 And why, too, are there more Socrates I know than Aristotle or Aristoteles? Certainly, I know nothing of Plato or Platon, except for an apellido.

 I know of some Teofilo. Or Diogenes. Theophanes (poetic one, here!).  But everybody must have not seen Aristophanes as a name in a list. Or Euripides or Anaxagoras. Or Pythagoras.

 One must be so careful with naming their child Hippocrates, the so-called father of medicine or Heraclitus, traced to be the father of history. These were two great names in worlds of the past, but here and now, a mistake in one syllable might create some quandary if not furor.

 I had a pen friend Minerva Cercado back in the 1990s. Hers is a beautiful name but I am afraid it does not sound good with all Filipino surnames. How about Minerva Diaz? Minerva Deserva? Minerva Seva? Minerva Raquitico? Minerva Ragrario. Hmm? Twists the tongue.

 There’s a guy named Delfin Delfin. And I am sure there must be Delfin Delfino. Based on the oracle of Delphi. (But why is Delfina pretentious?)

 If one were so steeped in Greek mythology, I wonder if she names her triplets or multiple births after The Furies, The Muses or the Fates.

 There’s one name I remember: Indira Daphne? Nicely paired. Wonderful. How snugly it puts together the Eastern and the Western sensibility. At least, it’s not Indira Gandhi—if she was so named by her parents (plus their surname), I wonder how she would measure up to that big name.

 Would you admire a father who’d name his child Psyche? Or would you say he’s out of his mind? Is he still sane if he adds Delia to it? As in Psyche Delia Magbanua?

 Maura. Chona. Lota. Why couldn’t I easily associate these names with anything pleasant—only something pleasurable? Ah, biases! Stereotypes.

 After all, names are just labels.

 That’s why some names are being picked so carefully—so as to reflect their parents’ sensibility. If it’s John Joshua, they are highly religious. Joshua Aaron, equally so.

 But nobody names their little girl Ruth Sara; it sounds redundant—both women were biblical and blessed. But put together, why does it not sound good?

 Peter Gerard? Acceptable. John Kevin? Pretentious.

 Kanye James Ywade? Are you out of your mind?

 Should we cry foul—how do we express concern about the names of children born through this pandemic? First name, Covid Bryant; surname, Santiago. Quarantina Fae Marie, surname de la Cruz. Shara Mae Plantita Diaz De Dios. Dios mio!

 The list goes on.

 Well, I know of a biology teacher who named his kids Xylem or Phloem, or something—and added to them a more common name. I think they’re still sane because at least, they didn’t go all the way naming them Stamen or Pistil or Chlorophyll. Or Stalk. Or Leaves or Photosynthesis. But obviously their Science teacher way, way back must have really made an impact on them.

 While Paraluman, Ligaya and Lualhati are popular native names for Filipinas, why don’t we have Filipino males named Lapulapu or Lakandula or Humabon? Clearly these are strong names! Is it the same as naming your boys Ares or Mars? What’s wrong with that?

 If it’s okay to be named Magtanggol, or Tagumpay or if you may, Galak—all positive names—why can’t we have Hamis, Sarap, or Siram or Lami when they sound just as appetizing as Candy, Sugar Mae or Dulcesima?

 Other parents are so enamored by popular girl names from television like Kendra, Kylie, Khloe—and all the Kardashians, but why aren’t they easily drawn to Georgia, Atalanta or Europa?

 Europa sounds so good for a girl’s name. Don’t you think? Asia? Wow! But why not Alemania or Venezuela? Or Antarctica? Or Australia?

 Africa.

 How about Filipinas? Why not Filipinas?

 Interestingly, a beautiful tall woman I met was named Luvizminda—and she is from Iloilo, yes, Western Visayas. Her parents clearly wanted to articulate the middle syllable “Visayas”, probably being Visayan themselves. It’s just original.

 I knew someone named Filipinas. Her parents were probably not content with Luzviminda as in Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao—counting each of the islands of our country.

 When they named her, were they rallying against regionalism, or lamenting the pointlessness of ethnicity? Were they protesting the divisiveness of their own people so they settled for the single, collective name of the archipelago?

 Did they really consecrate her to the country, the only Catholic nation in Asia—because it really means something to them? When she was born, did they wish for her to make it big, really succeed in life and lead the country more than Corazon Aquino—topple the patriarchy oligarchy tyranny (yes, in that order) and cure the ills of society?

 Maria Filipinas, is that you?

 Inang Bayan, let’s go!