Little Sister Monday
Back in April, when I visited my community for the first time, the town hosted a welcoming ceremony. They sang and danced for me, I sang and danced for them. They thanked God for sending me to their town, and I tried to hide how incredibly intimidating I found that. All was going well.
Then they asked my name.
Now, I happen to like my name. And I've lived in a few different countries and never had any particular trouble with it. However, for whatever reason, despite the fact that all the sounds in my name are also present in Ewe, it seems to be impossible for people in my community to pronounce without significant coaching. They can get "Billy" or "Belly" just fine, but when I try to get them to say "Bailey" I might as well be trying to get them to imitate the sound of the vomiting cat. They seem to think it's a little uncouth, and probably not worth the effort. Thus, the very first night I spent in my new home, I was given a new name: Adzo.
Adzo (pronounced Ah-jo) means "Monday Born." To me, it feels like less of a name and more of a title, since it can literally be applied to anyone born on Monday. Nevertheless, it has very much stuck. As soon as I open my door to poke my head out every morning, I am greeted by Ewe calls of "Good morning, Adzo!" A lot of people also call me "Davi Adzo" or "Dazdo," meaning Sister Monday-Born, or "Adzovi," meaning Little Monday Born.
Unfortunately, given that one in seven people in the community were also born on Monday, I find myself responding to a lot of calls that are not, strictly speaking, intended for me. If someone yells at their Monday born child, I tend to jump as if they were yelling at me. I occasionally stroll across the town responding to what I thought was someone calling for me only to discover that they were actually teasing a nearby friend. Coincidentally, the nearest Peace Corps Volunteer to me is also a Monday Born. Some people have asked me if all Americans are born on Monday, or if we're twins, or if we are lying about our birthdays. Nope. Just so happens that when there are only seven days to go around, a
I do miss my real name sometimes, and I honestly do look forward to meeting up with Peace Corps volunteers who call me "Bailey." But I infinitely prefer being Davi Adzo to the other name that I am typically called: Yevu.
Yevu is Ewe for white person or foreigner, and when I leave the little area in which I live, I can't walk more than ten feet without having it yelled at me. It's by no means said with bad intent: foreigners aren't particularly common around where I live, and some people have told me that seeing a foreigner can feel like a sign for a lucky day. Especially given the rather negative history of foreigners in this part of the world, I guess that's better than the alternative.
The people in my community have been excellent about calling me by my name instead of shouting "Foreigner!" My landlady, Mawuto, who is one of my favorite people, regularly scolds outsiders and passerby who call me yevu. The lecture generally goes something like this: "If you were in America, would you want people shouting 'black person' at you? No? Well she doesn't like it either. She has a name, and you should use it." Having people care about me and sticking up for me is one of the reasons I feel so happy in my town, and one of the reasons I often prefer to subsist on rice and beans rather than visiting the market.
Still, it can be a little exhausting to be going about my business while also ignoring the multitudes shouting hello. Ghanaians are incredibly hospitable, and I am sure that the majority of people calling for me are just trying to be friendly by greeting someone who is obviously an outsider. Sometimes, though, I really miss the ability to simply be another anonymous face in the crowd.
I'm sure when I go back to America I'll find myself missing my life as Adzo. No matter where I go, for the rest of my life, part of me will always be Little Sister Monday.
Then they asked my name.
Now, I happen to like my name. And I've lived in a few different countries and never had any particular trouble with it. However, for whatever reason, despite the fact that all the sounds in my name are also present in Ewe, it seems to be impossible for people in my community to pronounce without significant coaching. They can get "Billy" or "Belly" just fine, but when I try to get them to say "Bailey" I might as well be trying to get them to imitate the sound of the vomiting cat. They seem to think it's a little uncouth, and probably not worth the effort. Thus, the very first night I spent in my new home, I was given a new name: Adzo.
Adzo (pronounced Ah-jo) means "Monday Born." To me, it feels like less of a name and more of a title, since it can literally be applied to anyone born on Monday. Nevertheless, it has very much stuck. As soon as I open my door to poke my head out every morning, I am greeted by Ewe calls of "Good morning, Adzo!" A lot of people also call me "Davi Adzo" or "Dazdo," meaning Sister Monday-Born, or "Adzovi," meaning Little Monday Born.
Unfortunately, given that one in seven people in the community were also born on Monday, I find myself responding to a lot of calls that are not, strictly speaking, intended for me. If someone yells at their Monday born child, I tend to jump as if they were yelling at me. I occasionally stroll across the town responding to what I thought was someone calling for me only to discover that they were actually teasing a nearby friend. Coincidentally, the nearest Peace Corps Volunteer to me is also a Monday Born. Some people have asked me if all Americans are born on Monday, or if we're twins, or if we are lying about our birthdays. Nope. Just so happens that when there are only seven days to go around, a
I do miss my real name sometimes, and I honestly do look forward to meeting up with Peace Corps volunteers who call me "Bailey." But I infinitely prefer being Davi Adzo to the other name that I am typically called: Yevu.
Yevu is Ewe for white person or foreigner, and when I leave the little area in which I live, I can't walk more than ten feet without having it yelled at me. It's by no means said with bad intent: foreigners aren't particularly common around where I live, and some people have told me that seeing a foreigner can feel like a sign for a lucky day. Especially given the rather negative history of foreigners in this part of the world, I guess that's better than the alternative.
The people in my community have been excellent about calling me by my name instead of shouting "Foreigner!" My landlady, Mawuto, who is one of my favorite people, regularly scolds outsiders and passerby who call me yevu. The lecture generally goes something like this: "If you were in America, would you want people shouting 'black person' at you? No? Well she doesn't like it either. She has a name, and you should use it." Having people care about me and sticking up for me is one of the reasons I feel so happy in my town, and one of the reasons I often prefer to subsist on rice and beans rather than visiting the market.
Still, it can be a little exhausting to be going about my business while also ignoring the multitudes shouting hello. Ghanaians are incredibly hospitable, and I am sure that the majority of people calling for me are just trying to be friendly by greeting someone who is obviously an outsider. Sometimes, though, I really miss the ability to simply be another anonymous face in the crowd.
I'm sure when I go back to America I'll find myself missing my life as Adzo. No matter where I go, for the rest of my life, part of me will always be Little Sister Monday.
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