My Name is Not Gary
By Gary Girdhari
Guyana Journal 1998
I grew up as a typical country boy in Leguan, Guyana. There and then, when a child is born, family and relatives gather to talk, advise, make predictions and celebrate in a small way. Names are suggested, and somehow some of the names stick to you. However, if you are a Hindu, as I am, you are given a name by a Pandit after he enquired of the date, day and time of birth, and consulting the astrological patra.
As I grew up I knew my name to be Ganesh. I never knew who gave me this name. I remember that I was compared to the elephant-head Ganesh in the Hindu scripture – a comparison that I disliked as a child but loved to embrace as I grew older. I was also referred to, by at least one individual, as "big head Ganesh" – which I did not like. Sometimes my name would be "beta Ganesh" or "Ganeshji", a kind of favored emotion from my father or relatives, or my father's jahagi brothers. All of the villagers knew me and called me Ganesh. Some people, including my mother, even used my name as a distinguishing adjective when they referred to my father as “Ganesh daadee" – till this day. But there was nothing special or unique about this in my village.
The routines of life continued at a slow pace, sometimes hectic, in the rice-growing island of Leguan. Nothing of significance happened to attract people's minds, except the occasional wedding or a drunken fight. My name never became an issue.
I distinctly remember my first day at school. I was smartly dressed, neat, hair parted, book bag in hand and bare-footed. I later hated to carry the book bag as it was considered too sissy. I also hated to wear the pants with suspenders as this was for little boys. I hated my father's trimming of my hair because he always gave me a 'round cut' which was for little boys (the 'square back' was reserved for big boys). But this day I was excited about school as my father and I walked to Success C.M. School. After I was registered my father left and then I had my first revelation that I had another name, namely, Gobin Persaud. How did this come about I have no clue nor did I care. Other children were in similar predicament. Later, I learned that Ganesh was my 'house' name and Gobin Persaud was my 'school' name.
This knowledge was privy to only those few who were my contemporaries at school. No other person in the village knew of this nor would they have cared. I soon developed a liking for my school name. I had two names rather than one, like the teachers. Persaud sounded like a big shot name. As I got older my name became fairly popular or at least known because I was bright in school - bringing first in class 99.9% of the time. I practiced signing my name and I developed a great flourish in the penmanship which I labored unendingly to improve. Strangely, my school mates called me Ganesh out of school and Gobin at school, agreeing with the house name and school name separateness.
As I entered the sixth standard in primary school, it became time the 'enter' for the School Leaving Examination. Correct names of the pupils, authenticated by birth certificates, must be submitted to the Department of Education in Georgetown. The parents of some pupils had to rush to Georgetown to obtain birth certificates because they did not register the birth of their children. I took my birth certificate to the headmaster. It was folded, brown in coloration due to age and stain, and started to break at the seams of the folds.
When the headmaster assembled the class to talk about the Examination and entering us for it, he called out the names of those whose birth certificates he possessed. To our amazement and embarrassment which we feigned, we discovered that the school names of quite a few did not match the names on the birth certificates.
My name on my birth certificate was called out Girdhari. Now I knew that I had a third name, my birth certificate name or my book name. My real legal name Girdhari did not 'sound' as nice and there was no great flourish in signing it. There was no second name. Some of the other pupils' experiences were similar to mine. Thus, I was not unduly embarrassed (for this was enough cause for embarrassment). One name was now OK with me since I learned that this was not unusual. But there were some who had two names, the last name being that of their father's title. Upon early investigation I found that in the box for father's name on the birth certificate were two words: "not stated", and I felt this to be strange. As mentioned before, this was common. I shrugged it off as unimportant and convinced myself with my own justification, i.e., that many great people had one name. Thus, I lived my life without giving the issue of my name any further thought. As an adult, friends would call me Gir, Gird or Giri as a kind of first name – an endearment if you like.
I found out that the reason for the one name and the "not stated" inclusion is the fact that most Hindu marriages were ceremonial according to Hindu rites and customs, which did not accord with English legal standard and custom. Therefore, my parents were not legally married in the eyes of the law; hence I did not have the right to my father's surname Ori. (My name should have been Girdhari Ori.) There was no attempt on my part to correct the situation because of my further justification and arrogance, saying that it did not matter.
In the meantime, I passed College of Preceptors, Cambridge School Certificate and GCE – using the name Girdhari. The justification became justified. Why should I now change or add to my name when it would complicate things vis-a-vis the name on my academic certificates?
And life went on without a problem. Occasionally, some one would ask for my title (surname) and question why I did not have one. My response would be that I do not have one. But if pressed for answer, my response would be that Aristotle did not have one, nor did Socrates, nor Jesus, nor Lakshman, Hanuman, etc. And that would be the satisfactory answer. When I traveled to England for post-graduate studies, however, I found that my explanation or responses were not adequate. Most places use a binomial nomenclature. "The computer does accept one name." "Then call me Mr. Girdhari," would be my solution to that problem. Now, I was inadvertently given a first name Mr as far as computer is concerned. The result was that few subsequent correspondences to me would be sent to: Mr. Mr Girdhari. (I thought this was ridiculous and funny at the same time.)
Returning to Guyana, I once again did not feel any constraint with regard to my one name because it was found in a large percentage of Indian people and also because there was no computer. But computers were present in the US when I migrated here. In the U.S. you have an option to change your name when you get a green card and when you apply for citizenship. So, rather than be 'bugged' constantly I adopted a name closest to what I was always called. Gary and Giri were close matched for sound.
I wished that my arrogance and puerile justification were not so overbearing. When I realized that family connectedness by name may be important, it was getting too late – I would do it for myself and then... what do my children do? I wish I had taken my father's surname Ori and my house name Ganesh as my first name. I will keep Girdhari. It's a great name, full of great meaning. Gary! Well, anyone is free to call me by this name, but remember it is not my house name, nor my school name, nor my book name.
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