Nitkwa A-L-M-A

Many of your probably know that my dad writes a blog. Not too long ago, he wrote (actually Dad, you rambled) about his frustration with people always addressing each other on a first name basis. So, friends: when you see my father, please make sure you address him as Mr. Aldrich. Professor Aldrich or Dr Aldrich will also probably make his day.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my own first name recently. The one that you gave me Dad! Alma. It means soul in Spanish. (To the many sleazy guys in bars across the U.S. who have tried to use this bit of information as a pick up line: yes, I know what my own name means. No, I am not impressed by your limited Spanish speaking abilities). I like my name. Thanks Mama and Papa.

If you are American chances are you pronounce my name incorrectly. It’s not Ulma or Olma or Elma, it’s Alma—emphasis on the first A, like when you say “Ah ha!”, A-lma.

When I got to Niger, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that Nigeriens were able to pronounce my name correctly. For some reason this small phonetic detail was very comforting. During training, we were all given Nigerien names (mine was Maimouna), but once I got to my site I introduced myself to everyone as Alma; because that’s my name. Everyone’s ability to pronounce it properly, the way my parents do, made me feel immediately more at home.

Rwanda is a different story. There is no difference between the “l” and the “r” sound in Kinyarwanda. Furthermore, it’s extremely unusual to have two consonants together. (When asked about my morning runs, neighbors want to know if I went “es-po-ro”. Yes, I went sport). Introducing myself as Alma often makes people scratch their heads. A-RI-MA? AN-I-MAR? ANA? ANNE MARIE? Umuzungu!

Dad, I think you would be happy in Rwanda. Rwandans take name formalities beyond last names (which actually don’t exist here-- you have a Christian name and a Kinyarwanda name, no such thing as family name).

In Rwanda you address people by their title or status. For example, no one calls the Hospital Director in my town Bosco. We call him Director. Older people are addressed as umucecuru (old woman) or umusozi (old man) to show respect. Parents are addressed as Mama or Papa followed by the name of their oldest son (or daughter if they have no sons). When people call me umuzungu (white person) it’s not meant as a racial slur, it’s just what I am. The same way the driver is umushoferi and the storeowner is umucuruzi.

I struggle with this. Yes, I am an umuzungu, but I am not the same as every other umuzungu in Rwanda. I am Alma. I like addressing people by their names.This could be because while growing up in the United States, my first name was rather unusual, and a source of insecurity during my early years of high school. If this is the case, Dad, I will bill you for the psychotherapy later.

It is, however, much more likely that my preferences are generational. In this case, Dad, I’m afraid you are out of luck. For me (and I think this is an opinion held by many of my generation) the ability to remember your name, to identify you as an individual, is my way of showing respect.

Now, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer as well as my-American-father-and-Spanish-mother’s-daughter. I am aware of the importance of culture and respecting it. In Rwanda I will call Bosco Director and I will call my neighbor, Donatille, umucecuru. In the United States I will refer to people of my parents’ generation as Mr. or Ms blah-blah-blah. But everyone is free (and in Rwanda, encouraged) to call me Alma, especially if you can pronounce it correctly!