the importance of a name

When we met her (by photograph via email), her name was Meremen. 

As we got into the adoption process, we were told that her birth-given name was Roselene (pronounced: Rose-leen), and at that time we were told that her nickname was Meremen (pronounced: Mare-a-men).  The people at the orphanage told us that “Meremen” was what she had always been called, but no one (not even the Haitian nannies or Wilton her brother) could tell us where the name came from or what it meant.

The adoption community at large (as far as I can tell) has two, exactly-opposite ideas on names and the naming for children.  One view, I’ll call it the Biblical-based-idea, is the idea that the re-naming of an adoptive child is representative of the new life of the child.  Names (and new God-given-names) are certainly significant in the Bible.  Adam and his duty of the naming of “every beast of the field and every bird of the sky” (Genesis 2:19) is indicative of God’s giving Adam responsibility over each of them.  In the Old Testament, God renamed Abram to Abraham (at the time of His covenant) and Jacob was renamed Israel.  In the New Testament, Cephas was renamed Peter (renamed by Jesus at the time of his calling) and Saul was renamed Paul (upon his conversion).  In each event, the old name was from the old life . . . new life, new name.

Now, although I called it the Biblical-based-idea, I am not trying to imply that the Bible instructs us to rename our adoptive children, but there is certainly great Biblical significance in re-naming.

In this same thought process, there are certainly, non-Christians who believe that re-naming an adoptive child is a good thing.  It’s proof that things are new — a new family, a new home, maybe a new country, or a new language . . . certainly a new life.

There are also instances where children from other countries need to be renamed for cultural and social reasons.  For the staunch dissenters, here is an example: some of our friends adopted a boy from Haiti and his birth-name was Bloody.  Definitely a tough name if you pronounce it in English; although in Haitian-Kreyol it is pronounced “Blue-dee.” 

The other naming-philosophy (as if I speak for the adoption community at large, ha) is a family-history-based-idea.  With this idea, parents allow children (and even encourage children) to keep their birth-given names — out of a desire to help the child stay connected to their birth parents, to their culture and to their birth country. 

Jenny (my wife) and I wrestled with both options, and decided that for our children, keeping their birth-names was best.  We have great admiration for the childrens’ birth parents and can’t imagine being in their position.  Their mother gave them up for adoption not out of discontent or our of not wanting them, she did it because she loved them.  She gave them up for adoption because she knew it would help ensure their survival.  She did it not to “give them a shot at a better life” but simply, to give them life.  I know this because in January of 2004 I sat with her at a small table in Haiti and (through a 10 year old best-as-he-could-do translator) talked with her . . . assuring her that her children would be greatly loved and greatly cared-for and promising her that we would not let them ever forget her, her late husband, or the country where they were born.  More on this heart-pounding (I was terrified), unbelievable, priceless experience next time.

When the kids finally came home (and as their English progressed) we were able to find out a little more information about the name “Meremen.”  See if you can decipher the riddle . . .

Q – Was “Mermen” your name in Haiti?

A – Yes.

Q – Was “Meremen” always your name in Haiti?

A – Yes.

Q – Did you birth-mom and birth dad call you “Mermen”?   

A – Ummmm . . . I think, no. 

Q – So, the entire time you lived in Haiti, everyone called you Meremen? 

A – yes.

And so every few weeks, we would revisit this line of questioning again — to either Wilton or Meremen — and we would get the same answers.  And then a few weeks ago, we had a break-through.  “Haiti” was the name the children had given to the orphanage, the building.  Their world was so completely small, they didn’t know that they lived on an island or in a country, much less the name of the country.  And, actually, at one point in the adoption process, Roselene thought we lived at the bottom of the hill (whoever heard of an ocean or an airplane??).  If you take a look at the questions above and replace the word “orphanage” every time we said “Haiti”, it makes perfect sense.  So, after a few more questions, as best we can tell, “Meremen” was a name that Roselene was given when she got to the orphanage (at age 3) – she never asked for it, she never agreed to it and we are still in the dark as to where it really came from.  It’s not on any papers and it is most certainly not what she was called by her birth-parents. 

After a year of being home, friends and family (who are just now learning how to pronounce “Meremen”) will certainly take some time to get used to the not-really-new new-name.  But, if you happen to call her “Meremen,” she will politely say with a smile, “Um.  Excuse me?  Could you please call me Roselene?”