What IS in a name?
In June of 1983, I left
my home in upstate New York and boarded the first of a series of
flights that would take me across an ocean and one continent, and then
about half of a second continent, before arriving where I would spend
the next three years of my life.
I was a Peace Corps Trainee - not yet a Volunteer - who had been invited to serve in the Central African Republic.
I'd picked up a liberal arts degree (English & Philosophy + History), which initially I'd assumed would be more than sufficient for getting my foot in the Peace Corps door. It wasn't until years later, while working as a recruiter for the Peace Corps (a small federal agency whose budget last year was $400 million), that I realized how utterly dime-a-dozen my background had been.
My own recruiter sounded overworked but was kind, and let me down gently. He offered some tips about activities and classes which would make my application more competitive, before suggesting that, if I was still interested, I could call him back in six months. Then an interview to determine overall competitiveness, psychological suitability, etc., might take place. If one were deemed an acceptable risk, then medical, dental and legal screenings followed, and only then (maybe) an invitation.
(As many as one-third of applicants who survive this grueling gauntlet will, for one reason or another, not complete their moral obligation to complete three months of training + two years of service. I've rarely met people who guess correctly the number one reason Volunteers don't finish. But buy me two beers, and I may spill the beans.)
When finally one day an invitation did come in the mail, I was elated. After an opening line of congratulations, it said: And so it gives us great pleasure to invite you to serve in the Central African Republic, whose capital is ... and here I paused to examine this unknown word, before slowly emitting the sound Ban • gooey? French-speakers who saw the name 'Bangui' would most likely pronounce it correctly: bonn • GHEE. (On a side note, there is a hilarious and somewhat mysterious anecdote about what this name means, and how it came to be applied to the CAR's capital, but sorry to say, it's truly quite tangential to the telling of this tale.)
The time during which the Peace Corps was such a big part of my life -- counting the initial application process; two pre-service trainings in the United States and in the CAR; two years teaching English in a town called Bossangoa (boe • SONN • gwa, which the locals nicknamed Boston); a month of home-leave prior to the start of a third year as a health-educator in Bangui; the contract work as a logistics coordinator I did (following completion of my service), overseeing the purchase and transport of all the food and supplies that a far-away training site required; and finally, my work back in the U.S. as a recruiter for the Peace Corps -- totals about ten years, which back then, was about 1/3 of my life.
For most of that time, I'd been happily devoted to the 35th President's little experiment. Founded on March 1, 1961, while the Cold War was quietly raging, the Peace Corps has facilitated tens of thousands of Americans going to live and work in developing countries around the world, in a noble attempt at skills-sharing and helping people to help themselves, the repercussions of which continue to vibrate all over this lovely blue planet we all call home. That, too, is another story.
Nowadays, as an ex-Peace Corps Volunteer (we call ourselves RPCVs, the R for Returned), I occasionally attend an annual conference, or show up at reunions. Through social media, I've reconnected with some of the Central Africans who helped me to learn French, and have joined online interest groups, including the Heart of Texas Peace Corps Association, centered around Austin, where I've recently re-located. Not long ago, someone there posted this question: During your Peace Corps service, did your host family give you a new name?
Turns out that more than a few RPCVs did get new names, especially those who spent some time living under the roof of a host family, and I thought back to my own service all those years ago ...
Even though Central Africans didn't give me a new name, my middle-school students did have a unique way of addressing me: as Monsieur DOO-glossssssssss. No one had ever gotten my attention in quite the same way. This for a short time had seemed charming, and had inspired mimicry on the part of my housemate Mike (also a PCV), who had soon developed his own version: deux•GLACES (rhymes with the Spanish màs), which I'd assumed meant 'two ice creams' and whose inapplicability wasn't a huge concern.
It eventually dawned on me though that Mike had in mind a different translation, namely: 'Two Glasses' (of beer). You'd be forgiven for wondering, Hang on. How'd we go from ice cream to glasses? The answer to that is two-fold. First, the multiple meanings of the French glace: not only as ice cream, ice (cubes), and icing (frosting), but also as mirror, and window (related to the English glass / glazing / glazier)!
And finally, Mike's liberal use of his poetic license. It's probably been a while since he's been asked to show it, but I'm betting it's still valid.
postscript ~ The day before I wrote and published that post, and for the first time in years and years, Mike and I were back in touch. After I answered his call, by now you can surely guess the first word I heard.
I was a Peace Corps Trainee - not yet a Volunteer - who had been invited to serve in the Central African Republic.
I'd picked up a liberal arts degree (English & Philosophy + History), which initially I'd assumed would be more than sufficient for getting my foot in the Peace Corps door. It wasn't until years later, while working as a recruiter for the Peace Corps (a small federal agency whose budget last year was $400 million), that I realized how utterly dime-a-dozen my background had been.
My own recruiter sounded overworked but was kind, and let me down gently. He offered some tips about activities and classes which would make my application more competitive, before suggesting that, if I was still interested, I could call him back in six months. Then an interview to determine overall competitiveness, psychological suitability, etc., might take place. If one were deemed an acceptable risk, then medical, dental and legal screenings followed, and only then (maybe) an invitation.
(As many as one-third of applicants who survive this grueling gauntlet will, for one reason or another, not complete their moral obligation to complete three months of training + two years of service. I've rarely met people who guess correctly the number one reason Volunteers don't finish. But buy me two beers, and I may spill the beans.)
When finally one day an invitation did come in the mail, I was elated. After an opening line of congratulations, it said: And so it gives us great pleasure to invite you to serve in the Central African Republic, whose capital is ... and here I paused to examine this unknown word, before slowly emitting the sound Ban • gooey? French-speakers who saw the name 'Bangui' would most likely pronounce it correctly: bonn • GHEE. (On a side note, there is a hilarious and somewhat mysterious anecdote about what this name means, and how it came to be applied to the CAR's capital, but sorry to say, it's truly quite tangential to the telling of this tale.)
The time during which the Peace Corps was such a big part of my life -- counting the initial application process; two pre-service trainings in the United States and in the CAR; two years teaching English in a town called Bossangoa (boe • SONN • gwa, which the locals nicknamed Boston); a month of home-leave prior to the start of a third year as a health-educator in Bangui; the contract work as a logistics coordinator I did (following completion of my service), overseeing the purchase and transport of all the food and supplies that a far-away training site required; and finally, my work back in the U.S. as a recruiter for the Peace Corps -- totals about ten years, which back then, was about 1/3 of my life.
For most of that time, I'd been happily devoted to the 35th President's little experiment. Founded on March 1, 1961, while the Cold War was quietly raging, the Peace Corps has facilitated tens of thousands of Americans going to live and work in developing countries around the world, in a noble attempt at skills-sharing and helping people to help themselves, the repercussions of which continue to vibrate all over this lovely blue planet we all call home. That, too, is another story.
Nowadays, as an ex-Peace Corps Volunteer (we call ourselves RPCVs, the R for Returned), I occasionally attend an annual conference, or show up at reunions. Through social media, I've reconnected with some of the Central Africans who helped me to learn French, and have joined online interest groups, including the Heart of Texas Peace Corps Association, centered around Austin, where I've recently re-located. Not long ago, someone there posted this question: During your Peace Corps service, did your host family give you a new name?
Turns out that more than a few RPCVs did get new names, especially those who spent some time living under the roof of a host family, and I thought back to my own service all those years ago ...
Even though Central Africans didn't give me a new name, my middle-school students did have a unique way of addressing me: as Monsieur DOO-glossssssssss. No one had ever gotten my attention in quite the same way. This for a short time had seemed charming, and had inspired mimicry on the part of my housemate Mike (also a PCV), who had soon developed his own version: deux•GLACES (rhymes with the Spanish màs), which I'd assumed meant 'two ice creams' and whose inapplicability wasn't a huge concern.
It eventually dawned on me though that Mike had in mind a different translation, namely: 'Two Glasses' (of beer). You'd be forgiven for wondering, Hang on. How'd we go from ice cream to glasses? The answer to that is two-fold. First, the multiple meanings of the French glace: not only as ice cream, ice (cubes), and icing (frosting), but also as mirror, and window (related to the English glass / glazing / glazier)!
And finally, Mike's liberal use of his poetic license. It's probably been a while since he's been asked to show it, but I'm betting it's still valid.
postscript ~ The day before I wrote and published that post, and for the first time in years and years, Mike and I were back in touch. After I answered his call, by now you can surely guess the first word I heard.
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