Women's Names

“What’s this letter saying?” my dad and uncle ask me, handing me a hard to read, photocopied piece of paper from Immigration Services. I squint at it and begin to read the document. When I get to the first name, Shely, I stop and ask, “Who is Shely?” My dad and uncle share a small, knowing smile and, without answering me, ask me to keep reading. At the bottom of the document, the letter requests further information on “Jibon,” my uncle’s son. It dawns on me that Shely is my aunt’s name.

            This happens again and again.

            Once, overhearing my grandmother speaking, I heard a foreign name, Nehar, and asked, “Who is Nehar?” (It’s my paternal aunt-in-law, chuto chachi.) Another time, overhearing someone ask my dad when Sheznu died, I asked, “Who is Sheznu?” My dad, momentarily surprised (or perhaps embarrassed?), replied, “Your mom’s dak nam was Sheznu.” I had only been told my mother’s formal name for the purposes of official documents, as when school officials ask you for your mother’s name; never was I told that she had a nickname. She’d always been “your mom” or “your dad’s wife.”

            Growing up in a Bangladeshi community, we were taught not to refer to adults by their names. Everyone is an aunt, uncle, bhai (brother), or apa (sister). In that way, names got lost. Yet, not all names. When I think about my dad’s male friends, all the “uncles”, I realize that I know their names: Amullo, Alon, Habib, and so on. When I think of the women, though, I realize I don’t know their names. They are all chachi, aunt, or they are Habib-chachi or Alon-chachi. Sometimes they are defined by their children, as in Jibon’s mom, never as Shely.

            We are also taught to not question this practice. In fact, we are not even aware of what we are doing until we get to those awkward moments where we find ourselves asking (or silently wondering), “Who is…” Even then, we often continue repeating this behavior instead of asking ourselves: Why do we not ask the names of the women in our lives? What is this pattern doing to us? We fail to realize that by referring to the women in our lives by who their father/husband/brother/child is, we strip them of their identity and individuality; we erase them from history (just try drawing a family tree); we erase them from memory. We fail to recognize how this simple act feeds into patriarchy, a system of society or government in which men hold the power and women are largely excluded from it, instead of moving towards equality.

            We can change, though. We can start by asking the women in our lives what their names are. We can refer to them using that name. Instead of Amullo-chachi or Jibon’s mom, I can say Shely-chachi. It won’t be rude or improper. It will be a form of justice.