The first time I lived outside the US for a year, I went to China to try out teaching. The English names my students had chosen delighted me—Science, Smile, Sense, Vivian, Apple, Mud, Try. Somehow Sweaty, Clot, and Pussy ended up in the same row. I wondered what the lone boy in a class full of girls must have decided about himself to become Revolt. But Strength fascinated me the most.
He dissolved into giggles every time he spoke English. Muscular and bouncy with energy, he radiated confidence in Chinese, so I knew the nervous laughter was actually a sign of some deep will power. I wanted to be like him, so I declared that my Chinese name would be Lu Xun, after the famous writer. Another student guffawed that he was George W. Bush then.
Just before the year ended, Strength came to me after class, slid a scrap of paper onto my desk, and said, haltingly, “Write your name, please.” I scrawled my signature. He squinched his face at it a moment, then turned the paper over. “Um. Again.” This time I printed “JOE VOIGTS” in sloppy block letters that were squiggly but legible. He left satisfied.
On my last day, Strength materialized from the group of students who came to say goodbye and presented me with a gift. Another student explained that in China, instead of signing official documents with a pen, everyone carries their own personal stamp and ink. I opened the box and saw my scribbled handwriting converted into the red rubber bottom of a stone stamp. Strength beamed.
Soon as I was alone, I stared at the misshapen name trying to decipher who in the world I even was and what impression I was leaving in China.
Much later I tried out “Seph.” Didn’t stick.
