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Christina Pantin

Call me Beautiful.
No, really. My Chinese name, Ee Wan – according to some translations – means “beautiful cloud”. By the naming conventions that my father’s Toh clan followed when I was growing up in Malaysia, those born into the same generation had the same first character in the two-character names they were given.
My two sisters shared Ee, followed by a personalised second syllable. Likewise, my female paternal cousins adopted Ee, plus a second character. Meanwhile, the boys in the same generation had a different Chinese character that was common to all their names.
I was also named Christina. This is right there on my birth certificate, where someone thoughtfully scrawled in the right margin the three Chinese characters for Toh Ee Wan. Despite Chinese language classes in primary school, I never did pick up much Chinese writing capacity, but being able to write my Chinese name is one thing that has stuck.
I’ve always been called by my Christian name only, and nearly always by its full three syllables. My older brother, Christopher, went by Chris; I became Tina to my immediate family and relatives.
A journalism professor in the United States started calling me Chris during my undergraduate studies. I didn’t like it, but didn’t say anything. And then there was the occasional question as I met more Americans. “No, what’s your real name?” they’d ask, when I introduced myself. Perhaps they were hoping for something a bit more exotic.

That was some time back, and I wonder if people still make assumptions about the connection between names, ethnic identities and cultural backgrounds. Having grown up in multi-ethnic Kuala Lumpur, it never occurred to me that someone’s name – Chinese, English, Indian or Malay – might not be whatever was on their official papers.
So imagine my surprise when I found out that my father’s first name, John, was not actually given at birth. I learned about this only when he started writing his memoirs.
As the story goes, a British soldier stationed in Kuala Lumpur during the second world war had befriended my father, who was then a child and spoke little to no English. My grandmother had been earning some money by doing laundry for the soldiers in the encampment, and my father would drop off and pick up the clothes.
The young soldier decided to call him “John” because he couldn’t make out the Chinese name. (Similarly, Dad’s sister was dubbed “Jenny” and she has been that ever since.)
As for myself, I have taken my husband’s surname, Pantin, for a few decades now. Back when I was a young journalist with Reuters in New York, I did try to hang onto a dual identity for a while, using Toh-Pantin in my byline. But it just looked clunky and sounded even worse whenever I had to introduce myself.

The surname had originated in Spain, from where my husband’s grandfather emigrated to the United States a while ago. Being known as Christina Pantin has brought its share of confusion though. I’ve had people I’m meeting in person look past me, expecting to see a Westerner because of my name. I’ve also had some Filipinos embracing me as a compatriot, on the assumption that Pantin is a Filipino family name.
I guess the world has become more fluid these days and people are far less boxed into whatever was bestowed at birth, and freer to become what they imagine themselves to be.
Particularly in Hong Kong, I have been introduced to not just very conventional Western names, but also some unusual ones that I have found amusing and perplexing, in equal measure. Take, for example, “Winkie”. I was so distracted by his name tag at a business networking event that I couldn’t focus on the conversation. My mind darted to all kinds of questions, mostly starting with “Why”.
I also met “Simple”, who told me she felt this was a good description of her humble, unassuming character.
And I swear I saw someone called “Czarina” – it sounds grand, so why not, I guess?

There must be a kind of freedom in constructing one’s own name, instead of accepting what was given. There is also no denying that a name is precious – a person’s name is said to be the sweetest sound they can hear.
I try not to get someone’s name wrong, and when I do, I feel terrible. I happen to like the name I was given, even if I’m often having to correct those who call me “Christine”.
But they are easily outdone by a former colleague in Singapore who, when I commented about how often the wrong name cropped up, quipped: “Perhaps you should change your name to Christine.”
No, dear reader, we did not become fast friends after that.
Although I seldom use it, I am glad that my parents kept to tradition and gifted me a name that is tied both to my ethnic roots and a generation of female kin.
So Winkie – if we ever meet again, I promise to give you my fullest attention. And if you’ve forgotten my name, please just call me Beautiful.


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My father was renamed when a Briton couldn’t make out his Chinese name. I’m grateful for mine, though I now use a name that confounds some


My father was renamed when a Briton couldn’t make out his Chinese name. I’m grateful for mine, though I now use a name that confounds some.


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Chinese culture

Being Chinese

Expresses the views, ideas and conclusions of the author. (Eg. Enough of Crazy Rich Asians, think of crazy poor Hongkongers.)


Column

Being Chinese | I may not use my ‘beautiful’ Chinese name often, but I’m glad of the gift

My father was renamed when a Briton couldn’t make out his Chinese name. I’m grateful for mine, though I now use a name that confounds some