XXX or FNU? Musings on Tibetan Names Abroad

Huatse Gyal

 

“Is your first name XXX or FNU?”

This was a question asked by a customs officer at San Francisco International Airport in 2009, when I first came to the United States. 

“Sorry, officer, I don’t have a first name. It’s a cultural thing. Most Tibetans only have one name.” I was worried that something unpleasant might happen. 

“Okay, I need to talk with my boss about this. Your first name on your passport and your first name on your US visa should be the same,” the officer said rather coldly. I waited there for about twenty minutes, after which they finally figured out the enigma of my “name” and allowed me to enter the country. I almost missed my connecting flight to Portland. 

Now you must be wondering how I was given such enigmatic names. This was long before I realized the significance that names carry. In 2009, I was admitted to a college in Portland, Oregon. Sometimes people ask me, “Why did you choose Reed College?” I always answer, “I didn’t choose Reed. Reed accepted me, so I came.” Although I was selected as one of the best thirty students in high school in the region of Rebgong, and I earned some of the highest grades in the region, especially in the English language, in reality, a combination of luck, good karma, and hard work, as well as a serendipitous encounter with a kind mentor paved the way for me to access higher education. Back then, Reed generously recruited one Tibetan student each year—fully funded through their financial aid program. I was a beneficiary of that generous tradition. As karma would have it, a son of two Tibetan nomadic herders joined the class of 2013. 

When I went to get a Chinese passport at the county Exit and Entry Administration Office in China, the officers there asked me to write XXX for my first name and my full Tibetan name in Chinese Pinyin for my last name. I had never written my name as first name and last name before. When I went to Beijing to apply for a US visa, the US embassy wrote FNU for my first name, which stands for First Name Unknown. In general, not many Tibetans get the opportunity to pursue further studies abroad, especially students from nomadic and farming family backgrounds. Those few who do all share the same first name on their passport: XXX. Until this day, I still don’t fully understand why XXX is given as a first name to all Tibetan students, and why the US embassy replaced it with FNU. If you do, please let me know. 

After I finally waded through the security check in San Francisco, I walked briskly to my boarding gate and handed my boarding pass to one of the flight attendants. 

“Is XXX your first name?” she asked casually, with a smile. 

“No, that’s not my name. It’s a cultural thing…” I replied. 

“Oh, I see. By the way, XXX means something bad in English.” She said, again with a smile. 

“Oh, really. I don’t know about that. It’s not my name.” I went straight into the boarding bridge to the airplane.  

Was I bothered by her question about XXX? No, not at all. I simply felt that XXX had nothing to do with me. I felt so euphoric over the fact that I’d got a full ride to Reed College for four years. As a kid, I had never endured hunger, thanks to milk, yogurt, and yak meat, and thanks to my mother, who always ate less so her children could eat more. However, in 1997, the local government built a primary school in my nomadic-pastoral village. It was a concrete boarding school. Based on a lottery, I was one of the students the school recruited for their first class of seven. Most families were against sending their children to school. Families who refused to send their children to school were fined. The school offered hot water and steamed bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The temperature sinks below twenty degrees Celsius in winter. All the students had cracks on their hands and feet. Hunger was constant. From that experience, I learned that people can endure on just white bread and water for many years. If you compare that lifestyle to the students’ lives at Reed College, the difference is night and day.  

Right after I arrived at Reed, I went for a physical examination. My appointment was at 9:30 on a Monday morning. I arrived at the hospital before 9 a.m., so I waited in the waiting area, expecting that a nurse would call me. There were some other people waiting there as well.  9:30 came and went. Nobody called my name. The clock passed 9:40, then 9:50. I stood up and went to the receptionist’s desk and asked about my appointment. 

“What’s your name?” The receptionist asked, politely. 

“My name is, my name is, Huatse, oh, maybe you have FNU in your records.” 

“Let me check. Yes, FNU, that’s what it says here,” the secretary responded with a smile. “Your appointment was half an hour ago. Actually, a nurse called your name several times—FNU, Fenoo, right?—but nobody responded.” 

“Oh, I heard that name, but that’s not my name. Can I see a doctor today?” 

“Sorry, FNU is what we have in our records. We don’t have any doctors available today. Would you like to make another appointment? I’m happy to include a preferred name in our records.” Her tone was sympathetic.  

“Ok, I’ll make a new appointment then. Please write ‘Huatse’ for my preferred name,” I said. I had actually heard the nurse hesitantly calling out F-N-U, and then Fenoo. My mind simply didn’t recognize that name. After the flight attendant in San Francisco had mentioned that XXX means something bad in English, I simply used FNU whenever I needed to fill out a form at school. I shared this funny encounter at the hospital with my college friends, and we all laughed, laughed, and laughed. People at the school cafeteria started calling me “Triple X.” They must have seen it on my student ID.

Was I bothered by this experience of missing my appointment or being called “Triple X”? Not really. So many good things were happening in my life. As a middle school student in Tibet, most of us had this deep desire to learn. Many of us would wake up at 5 a.m. almost every day to memorize wonderful essays and poems both in Chinese and Tibetan. On weekends, we would seek out monks at the monasteries to teach us Buddhist philosophy and Tibetan grammar, poetry, and even calligraphy. I found an environment that was conducive for learning at Reed College.

Particularly memorable for me was the college’s foundational writing course, Humanities 110, which introduced students to fundamental Western intellectual traditions, aesthetics, and political forms through Greek and Roman epics, history, drama, and philosophy.¹ 

*

What is a name? What is in a name? Are names just a label? Who has the right to a name? This story is not just about me. It’s a story about names, lost names, and names that are being torn apart, degraded, and erased. Given all the choices that exist, and most importantly the personal and political freedoms those choices embody, an enormous amount of care and love must go into selecting a name for a newborn baby—in all the cultures of the world. In Tibetan culture, common names for girls include Drölma སྒྲོལ་མ། (Tara), Khandro མཁའ་འགྲོ (dakini or angel), Lhamo ལྷ་མོ (deity), Yangdzom གཡང་འཛོམས། (full of fortune), Pamo དཔའ་མོ། (heroine), and Nordzom ནོར་འཛོམས། (abundant wealth). Common Tibetan names for boys include Trashi བཀྲ་ཤིས། (auspicious), Döndrup དོན་འགྲུབ། (fulfillment of every purpose, also the Buddha’s personal name), Tsering ཚེ་རིང་། (long life), Kelzang སྐལ་བཟང་། (golden era), Lozang བློ་བཟང་། (noble-hearted), and of course, Tendzin བསྟན་འཛིན། (holder of the Buddha’s teaching). Some Tibetans have a combination of two names, such as Trashi Döndrup བཀྲ་ཤིས་དོན་འགྲུབ།, Lozang Tendzin བློ་བཟང་བསྟན་འཛིན།, Yangdzom Drölma གཡང་འཛོམས་སྒྲོལ་མ།, and Khandro Drölma མཁའ་འགྲོ་སྒྲོལ་མ།. Most Tibetans are taken to a Lama (Buddhist or Bon) by their parents to receive a name, and some Tibetans also name their own children. I was named by my grandfather. He wanted to give me a powerful name, and finally he decided on Huatse Gyal དཔའ་རྩེ་རྒྱལ།, which is quite an uncommon name for a Tibetan. Hua means “hero,” Tse means “top,” and Gyal means “victory.” So, my name means something like victorious top hero. Altogether, it’s a single name. Since people often call me Huatse for short, I split my whole name into two in English (“Huatse” and “Gyal”), as that way it looks like I have a first name and a last name. My grandfather had never imagined that one day I would have to carry names like XXX or FNU. If he knew, he would be heartbroken. 

When the flight attendant at the airport in San Francisco said that XXX meant something bad in English, I simply ignored it. But one day, curious to learn what she meant by “bad,” I Googled “What does X mean in English?” According to Google, “X means ‘Kiss’ and can also mean ‘variable’ in Math. The letter X is widely used at the end of text messages and emails to signify a ‘Kiss.’” That doesn’t sound too bad, I said to myself. Why did she say that it has a negative connotation? Then, I searched, “What does XXX mean?”, and this time, it led me to some questionable websites that many people seemed to be quite familiar with in this country. The flight attendant’s comment all those years ago suddenly made sense. That has really humiliated me.

Without a name, you are stripped of the most basic conception of selfhood, of your lineage, and even your very existence. Wouldn’t you agree? When you call someone by their name, you are acknowledging the existence of that person. A name is more than a label. Your name is closely related to your mental and physical sense of who you are and the memories of where you come from. Names are first and foremost a personal identification in relation to other humans, but we also use them to relate to mountains, to rivers, grasslands, and other beings around us. There is a difference between saying, “How are you?” and “How are you, Huatse?” The former is a bit detached, while the latter serves to bind people together. This may seem trivial. But this ubiquitous practice of calling someone by their name is an act of acknowledging the mere presence of another person, regardless of whether it is said with or without affection. 

Names are also connected to one’s bank account, social security, medical records, and many other features of modern life, so not having a first name or having a confusing name causes many troubles. Conversely, the act of not properly calling, writing, or acknowledging someone’s name is part and parcel of the systematic erasure of their names and identities. My friend Dr. Kunga Norzom was once served by a barista who carelessly wrote her name wrong on her coffee cup (they wrote “Kung”). She posted about this experience on Facebook, powerfully articulating the significance of a person’s name:  

“Growing up in the West, a lot of us have experienced invalidating moments where we felt unwelcomed or were treated like ‘outsiders’ because of our cultural name or smelly food or funny accent. It takes a lot of emotional work to embrace something the dominant culture tells you to get rid of or replace. So, what’s in a name, you say? So much. My name carries my parents’ pride and hope for me. My name has kept me grounded and connected to my identity and community. My name is sacred, and it is meaningful.  My name is me not giving up on my cultural identity and my years of effort and growth that I’m proud of. My name is not difficult if you just slow down and listen. My name is not like Mary or Bob or John or even Kung; my name is Kunga, it’s Tibetan and it’s beautiful, please learn to say it.”

Misspelling someone’s name can be construed as a grave insult and a form of humiliation if you are not part of the dominant culture. My friend’s experience reminds me of a different example of Tibetan names being distorted and debased. When the Chinese state implemented the Household Registration policy in Tibet in the early 1980s, they recorded and collected Tibetan names in Chinese on each family’s household registration book (hukou). In many cases, Tibetan names were written carelessly and offensively when they were transcribed into Chinese characters. The name Lhakyi, ལྷ་སྐྱིད། which means “happy deity” in Tibetan, was written as 垃圾 in Chinese, which means “garbage.” Yangmo གཡང་མོ། means “fortune-carrying sheep,” but in Chinese it was written as 羊毛, meaning “sheep wool.” There are numerous other examples. Lozang བློ་བཟང་།, “goodhearted” or “noble-hearted,” became 裸丧, “naked funeral”; Rikmo རིག་མོ།, “intelligent,” became 肉毛, “meat and fur”; and Döndrup དོན་འགྲུབ།, “the fulfillment of every purpose,” became 吞猪, “to swallow a pig.” Tso མཚོ།, which means “lake,” commonly appears at the end of female names in Tibetan, e.g., Lhamo Tso ལྷ་མོ་མཚོ།, Lumo Tso ཀླུ་མོ་་མཚོ།, Tsering Tso ཚེ་རིང་མཚོ།. In Chinese, however, it was written as 错, which means “wrong.” 

Why did they do this? I like to believe that the household registration officials wrote these Chinese names out of ignorance. But even so, I wonder—would they give such names to their own loved ones? I believe they were mainly careless, but their carelessness means that there are hundreds and thousands of Tibetans who need to explain the bizarre meaning of their names in Chinese characters. Nowadays, more and more Tibetans are more fluent in Mandarin Chinese than in their mother tongue, so this new generation can write their Tibetan names in meaningful Chinese characters.  

*

As I’ve spent more time in the United States, I have come to learn both the glorious history of the American dream and the foundation of that history, which is the history of American slavery and the displacement of indigenous land. When African Americans were forcefully and brutally brought to this country a few centuries ago, they not only lost their land, they lost their names. They were given names by their masters. In an interview with Fresh Air’s Terry Gross at the age of 84, the renowned African American writer Toni Morrison had this to say about names: “I don’t think I knew any of my father’s friends, male friends, by their real name. I remember them only by their nicknames. Also, there was an honesty sometimes—the names were humiliating, deliberately so. Somebody would pick out your flaw. If you were little, they would call you ‘Shorty,’ and if you were angry, they would call you ‘The Devil.’ I remember a man in the neighborhood who was called ‘Jim the Devil.’ Always those three words. ‘Have you seen Jim the Devil?’” Here, she laughed softly. 

Morrison was her married name, but she divorced in 1974. Wofford was her father’s last name. And she was born Chloe, not Toni. I had a visceral reaction when this towering figure said that she never felt like anything other than Chloe—that was who she was. When Gross asked, “Once you started being called Toni, did you feel different from being called Chloe?”, Morrison delved even deeper into the issue: “I never felt like anything other than Chloe. The person I was, was this person who is called Chloe. You know my name Chloe, nobody could pronounce it properly outside of my family. In school, the teacher called me Chlo, or Clovi, or Clori because it was spelt that way. It’s much more common now, but I couldn’t bear people mispronouncing my name, but the person I was, was this person who is called Chloe. Then, I go away, people in Washington they don’t know how to pronounce C-H-L-O-E, so somebody mistakenly called me Toni because she couldn’t hear Chloe. So, I said…aha, ok, I don’t care. Call me Toni, it’s easy and you don’t have to mispronounce my name. Then I meant to put my maiden name in the first book I wrote. As a matter of fact, I called the publisher, ‘Oh by the way, I don’t want Toni Morrison on the book.’ They said it’s too late. They’ve already sent it to the Library of Congress, but I really would have preferred Toni Wofford.” Perhaps very few people have noticed that she was publishing under a name that did not give her a sense of self, or a name that had stripped her of her very personhood. Chloe Wofford (1931-2019) won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1993.

I’ve also learned that the African American civil rights activist and Muslim minister Malcom X (1925-1965) refused to use his last name, Little, starting in 1950. In his autobiography, Malcom X writes, “The Muslim’s ‘X’ symbolized the true African family name that he never could know. For me, my ‘X’ replaced the white slave master name of ‘Little’ which some blue-eyed devil named Little had imposed upon my paternal forebears.” I truly understand Malcom X’s refusal to use a name which carried so much violence and humiliation. Malcom X was assassinated in 1965, when he was only 40 years old. 

Where there is oppression, there is always resistance. As Tibetans say, pain or suffering may get old, but they may never be forgotten (སྡུག་ལ་རྙིང་རྒྱུ་ཡོད་ཀྱང་བརྗེད་རྒྱུ་མེད་།). Many of our lives are structurally shaped by different shades of oppression, but we shall never be defined by it. We should find every opportunity to laugh at the stupidity of crude situations that continue to envelope us. Humor has a way of healing our hearts. I hope you agree with me. As Chloe Wofford said, “we should keep our integrity and claim our own life” in the face of oppression and violence. At first, I used FNU for my first name whenever I bought a plane ticket, but later that caused me some trouble as I was told that FNU is not my first name on my passport, so I have to use XXX whenever I travel. To be frank, FNU is hardly better than XXX. One was imposed on me by Chinese bureaucracy, and the other by US bureaucracy.  I often need to give myself more time at the airport in anticipation of customs officers asking me questions about my enigmatic name. I have carried these two names for about a decade now. ² On my social media, or whenever I have not been required to write an “official name,” I have written “Huatse Gyal,” a transliteration of my original Tibetan name, དཔའ་རྩེ་རྒྱལ།.

*

“Is XXX your first name? What does it mean?”

This question was asked by an African American customs officer at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago about three years ago. 

“When I was a teenager, I was very inspired by Malcom X’s speeches, so I changed my first name to XXX as a way to honor his work,” I said with a smile. 

“Really? Wow, that’s amazing! Here is your passport and have a nice trip,” she replied, very kindly. She didn’t even bother to consult with a superior about my enigmatic name. My response made sense to her. That was the shortest and the most pleasant interaction that I have ever had with a customs authority in the United States. Of course, I had never heard about Malcom X as a teenager. 

As I slowly walked toward my boarding gate, I said quietly to myself, “I wonder if this trick would work with a white officer.” 

 

Notes

1. In 2016, a group of Reed students protested that the course was too “white” and “Eurocentric” and demanded that the college diversify the syllabus. Reed finally accepted changes to its signature humanities course by including the humanistic traditions of the ancient Egyptians, Israelites, and Achaemenids as well as texts related to Mexico City in the 15^th through 20^th centuries, and Harlem from 1919 to 1952. 
2. When I went to renew my passport in 2019, I was given one name for both my first and last names. Although I am finally free of XXX, this change has not made my life easier. Now, whenever I am required to provide “official names,” I am bombarded with questions such as “What is your first name?”, “What is your last name?”, and “Why don’t you have a first name?” 

 

Huatse Gyal is a Ph.D. candidate in the Anthropology Department at the University of Michigan. His research focuses on the interdependent relationship between Tibetan nomads, their animals, and the future sustainability of their land.