We were at the Gateway Hotel for a family dinner when my three-year-old niece slid unceremoniously under the table. “Zia!” I implored, using the only name I knew, “get off the floor!”
When her mother chimed in, she realized it was serious. “Zhiamae!” my sister-in-law sternly intoned, “listen to your uncle!”
Wait, what did she say? More to the point, how the heck is it spelled? Oh yes, I recalled, it’s the name I can never remember. Welcome to the Philippines, where naming babies is a mysterious art and nicknames are considered essential.
Here’s another barely recognizable name: Ziamaeh’s older brother’s, Jacob. Simple enough, you’re probably thinking, what’s the problem? Just that it’s spelled J-h-a-i-c-o-b, which no one can ever pronounce.
More strange Filipino names include Elijah spelled Alijah; Elgin as Aelgenne; Bartel as Barthel; and Jessica as Jeasica. And as if all that weren’t confusing enough, how about Hazzel, Kristine, Wyndy, and Zhion for Hazel, Christine, Wendy, and Zion? Oh, and let’s not forget our good friend Hershey, spelled Her-she.
I swear, it’s enough to make one’s head spin, specifically mine.
Apparently there’s a reason for this ringing lack of rhyme. Anyone aware of Philippine history knows that it was long occupied and heavily influenced by a bevy of other nations, including the US and Spain. So, it’s not too surprising that the country’s native language is a hodgepodge.
Before the Spaniards in the 16th century, the ancient Tagalogs—for whom the modern national language is named—used the baybayan script in which to write. Later, it almost disappeared as the Spanish colonialists introduced the Roman alphabet. So, Tagalog and most other Philippine languages were written in abecedario, which was missing several letters. Then, in 1930, Filipino scholars introduced abakada comprising only 20 letters, including five vowels and 15 consonants. It was adopted as the official alphabet in 1941 although, according to one source, spelling was not completely standardized until the mid-20th century. Instead, she says, how one spelled depended on “the writer’s preference.”
But the confusing changes continued. Eleven letters were added in 1977 and, as recently as a decade later, several old ones were removed. Add to that the myriad of regional dialects and the emergence of English as a second national language and, well, it’s certainly not shocking that the nation’s spelling is confused.
It was amid this historical backdrop that we gathered at the Gateway for that recent evening of communal enjoyment. As I nibbled my chicken adobo and crunched the most amazing Halo Halo I’d ever tasted, I couldn’t help but reflect on the recent evolution of this newly reborn country I call home. Filipinos my age make up what can only be described as the nation’s first post-colonial generation. And the hybrid culture they and their descendants forge will truly be a thing to behold.
One of those descendants—a teacher from Siargao Island named Jason—sat near me at the table. “Hey Jason,” I called out, trying to be friendly, “come closer and don’t be shy.” In the wide-ranging conversation that followed, he struck me as a reasonable and intelligent young man. Then I learned that he spells his name Gayson.
Would someone please pass me a drink? A stiff one, if you could?
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David Haldane’s latest book, “A Tooth in My Popsicle,” is available on Amazon and Lazada. A former Los Angeles Times staff writer, Haldane is an award-winning journalist, author, essayist, and broadcaster with homes in Joshua Tree, California, and Northern Mindanao, Philippines, where this column appears weekly in the Gold Star Daily.
