What's In A Name?

My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..

I was recenty googling my name to find out what exactly was an amapola. Turns out that amapola is a member of the hibiscus family, the hibiscus mutabilis to be exact, which is grown in rural areas of the Philippines for both its ornamental and medicinal value. The amapola grows as an erect, branched shrub or small tree 2-4 meters in height. Another entry for amapola, also on Google, says that it (now known by its Americanized name as poppy) is the state flower of California. That’s quite a leap from amapola to poppy but then again you could say the same of Governor Arnold.

Definitions aside however, I wasn’t deliberately named after a flower although it would have been a nice gesture. Truth be told, my parents didn’t have the imagination or the patience to find a suitable name for me. They waited for seven days, unheard of in this day and age, caught in a naming stalemate, unable to agree on their choices, neither of them speaking to the other in case one spoke out of turn. I was literally called Baby Girl Batungbacal during those seven days. For non-speaking Tagalog readers, batungbacal is a contraction of two words, bato meaning stone and bacal meaning metal. Here I was, only seven days old and already the implications of my name weighed heavily upon my deformed cranium.

The breakthrough moment happened during a visit by my grandmother who was gravely disturbed by the lack of a name for me, her first grandchild. “Anak ng amapola,” she screamed, blurting out amapola instead of some smelly, body part which was what people over there usually said when they were pissed. It was a class thing; women like her just never spoke with a foul mouth. And that’s how I got my name.

By the time I was ready to get married, I was determined not only to marry a man whose name had fewer syllables than mine, I was also going to be prepared when the time came to name our child. Glenn and I eagerly bought every naming book we could find, acutely aware of the fact that since this child would be a cross-breed, it had to be a name that would feel and sound natural in both cultures. It was also important for me to hear how the name would roll off my tongue when I’m cooing or yelling at the child. It’s like naming a dog but without the emotional or college investment.

Glenn and I also agreed not to share the process with other people but you know how friends and family are, especially family. They just won’t leave you alone. At a particularly memorable gathering—Passover I believe it was at my MIL’s (mother-in-law)--both our relatives suddenly decided to amuse themselves by shouting out possible names in the interregnum between the main meal and reading from the Haggadah. Orville! Cleopatra! AmyBeth! Charlton!

This was all amusing if not somewhat irritating and I was praying for it to end. It did when someone (and I’m not going to say who) had a flash of inspiration and yelled, “Lucifer!”. End of story.