Un tocayo; una tocaya (Spanish)
In fifth grade, I was kind of a dork —extremely surprising, I know. I had a weird sense of humor, I wore outdated clothes, and I stood out as one of the few Asian kids in our school. I wasn't at the top of the elementary school social ladder, and I endured my fair share of teasing.
One of the more popular girls in my class shared my name. It was the first time I ever met someone who had the same name as me, and it was basically the only thing we had in common. But it was something.
One day, the other Kristin and I found ourselves in the same group for a class project. Our task was to identify and color in different states on an unlabeled map of the United States. Maryland was one of our states. This was going to be easy. I was born in Maryland, and I knew what it looked like—a little step stool (kind of?). But our group leader, Peter, insisted I was wrong and proceeded to color in an entirely different state. When our teacher pointed out the error, Peter blamed me. “Kristin told us it was this one!” he said. I was steaming, but the other Kristin came to my rescue. “No, you colored wrong,” she said.
Tocayo or tocaya is a Spanish word that describes a person who has the same given name as you. It suggests a sense of connection and camaraderie. In English, the word translates to “namesake,” and its exact origins are unknown, but it might come from the Nahuatl word tocaitl, which means name or reputation. Tocaya is a noun; to use it in a sentence, I might have said my old classmate was mi tocaya.
What I find fascinating about this word is that it reveals a subtle but profound truth about human nature. It shows that we’re constantly seeking ways to connect with others, even if it's as simple as having a shared name. I wonder if the other Kristin remembers that moment and if she spoke up for me because of some unspoken connection. I wonder if she considered me her tocaya. It's a curious thought. I also wonder whether Peter ever discovered the correct location of Maryland, but that's a story for another time.
If you find the concept of tocayo/tocaya interesting, check out writer Connie Wang’s recent piece in the New York Times: Generation Connie.
From the archives
How to Add More Play to Your Grown-Up Life, Even Now (the New York Times, 2020): “Fred Rogers said that play is ‘the work of childhood.’ Kids take this work seriously, they’re good at it, and they can teach us a thing or two about why play is important — especially now.”
What’s new?
I crossed an item off my bucket list: A night sky tour in the California desert.
Speaking of the night sky, a poem.
I read: an interesting piece about why we listen to sad songs. “Maybe we listen to music not for an emotional reaction…but for the sense of connection to others.”
— Kristin
P.S. Do you like the work I do on Untranslatable? It would mean the world to me if you left me a blurb. Thank you, friend.
Hi Kristin. I VERY MUCH like your "@Untranslatable" guided tours into key words in other languages. It feels like a mini cultural adventure. And I so agree with your point that "we’re constantly seeking ways to connect with others, even if it's as simple as having a shared name." :)
The first time I met someone with my name, I was a freshman in high school and she was a senior. The second time, I was a senior and an incoming freshman had my namesake.
Every shi VON has been spelled differently. Every one, completely different from me. Only recently has the name sprouted from the word works. A photographer at a party, someone waiting for a piercing appointment, people on television shows... I’ve never been this inundated but I still feel unique. My name still seems to slip quietly between the cracks and before I know it, it’s just me again and I kind of life that.