Name Trouble

31 July 2022

Name order in Japanese, as is the case for other cultures like Korean, Chinese, and, surprise!, Hungarian, places the given name after the family name, and the subject of given names in Japanese is a vast one. I could explore how given names have changed over time. I could talk about older class differences in given names. Gendered names have changed over time as well. There’s enough material for several issues.

I’m going to start this discussion by defining my scope. I’m looking at post-war Japan, and at people who identify as male. This will not be an exhaustive look, either: I’m painting in very broad strokes.

In the 1960s and 70s, there were some quick ways to guess whether a given name indicated a man or a woman. If the name ended in –ko, like Momoko, Haruko, Mieko, etc., it had to be a woman’s name. Women’s names generally had three syllables, as all three of those examples show. (Remember that there are no diphthongs in Japanese: the third example’s syllables are mi-e-ko.)

Men’s names had four syllables. Hiromichi, Yoshikazu, Akiyoshi, Tsuguhito, etc.

As aides-de-memoire go, this was simple.

Except when it was wrong.

Japanese might only have five irregular verbs but the ways in which men’s names break that four-syllable rule are myriad.

First come the gender-neutral names. Several names in Japanese, one of my favorites, Kaoru, among them, can be given to either men or women. Like Kaoru, many of these gender-neutral names are three syllables in length. Kaoru, Naomi, Kazumi, etc.

There are also three-syllable names that are only for men. Tsuyoshi, Susumu, Wataru, Masaru, not to mention that anime megastar, Akira. Three-syllables can also end in an -o, such as Teruo or Akio.

Then come the traditional men’s names that are still in use. Tarō (three syllables because the macron extends the osound: ta-ro-o) is the easiest example. Tarō is the basis for longer names as well, such as Kentarō, Gontarō, Buntarō, and Sōtarō. Two names from folklore follow this pattern as well: Kintarō, the super-strong boy who wrestled a bear and a carp, and Momotarō, the boy born from a peach (and the progenitor of my favorite nickname in Japan).

The longer –tarō names have updated versions, too, that eliminate the –rō ending: Kenta, Kinta, Gonta, and so on.

Some traditional names can indicate the bearer’s position in the birth order.

The rō (usually written as 郎 (meaning son) or 朗 (meaning bright) in Japanese) can be prepended with numbers.

一郎 (Ichirō, my favorite Mariner’s player from years past)

二郎 (Jirō, who dreams of sushi, and never read as nirō)

三郎 (Saburō, an unpredictable reading of those two characters; I had to memorize them)

四郎 (Shirō)

五郎 (Gorō)

六郎 (Rokurō)

七郎 (Shichirō)

八郎 (Hachirō)

九郎 (Kurō)

十郎 (Jūrō)

Some of them are four syllables, some are not.

What’s more, these can be the basis for even longer names. My favorites include 弥一郎 (Yaichirō, five syllables), 源五郎 (Gengorō, five syllables (the n is counted as a syllable on its own)), and 勘九郎 (Kankurō—the name 九郎 alone is homophonous with the word for hard work or struggles, 苦労 (kurō), and it’s therefore rare to see 九郎alone).

The issue with syllables, however, is not the only problem.

Let me back up just a little bit.

When the Japanese started using Chinese characters as a writing system, characters could continue on as they had in Chinese when what they referred to was not originally part of Japanese culture, including Buddhist concepts like nirvana (空寂 kūjaku in Japanese). When characters’ readings align with that Chinese conceptualization, the reading is called 音読み (on’yomi). But the Japanese also mapped Chinese characters onto native Japanese concepts as well. 帝, which in Chinese refers to the emperor, refers to the emperor in Japan as well, and when it stands alone, it is read as Mikado (where are my Gilbert & Sullivan fans at?). This Japanese reading is called 訓読み (kun’yomi).

Based on this, you might guess that there would perhaps only two ways to read characters in a person’s given name. But there’s a catch.

My husband will forgive me, but I will use his full given name as an example.

He writes his name, Hiromichi, as 博道 (characters that can mean expansive way—his parents didn’t actually choose that name for him, but that’s his story to tell).

But here are the other ways that Hiromichi can be written:

弘路

煕通

尋通

寛通

博導

紘路

弘長

濶道

啓達

坦路

裕迪

紘道

弘倫

洋通

豁通

丕道

博倫

宏通

裕道

尋道

弘逵

拓路

広通

博逵

浩猷

廣路

廣道

広達

寛径

Not to mention the Hiromichi names that have alternate readings (which is when, as a translator, you have to ask how the name is read):

寛道 (also read as Kandō)

博教 (also read as Hironori)

裕達 (also read as Hirosato, Hirotatsu)

博通 (also read as Hiroyuki)

啓道 (also read as Keidō, Yoshimichi)

博典 (also read as Hirosuke, Hironori, Hirofumi)

宏達 (also read as Kōtatsu, Hirotatsu)

浩通 (also read as Hiromitsu)

弘通 (also read as Hiromitsu)

宏充 (also read as Hiromitsu)

浩道 (also read as Kōdō)

周道 (also read as Shūdō)

裕康 (also read as Hiroyasu, Hiroshi, Yūkō)

裕通 (also read as Hiroyuki)

祐道 (also read as Sukemichi)

拓道 (also read as Takudō)

宏倫 (also read as Hirotomo, Hironori)

宏典 (also read as Hironori, Hirosuke, Kōsuke, Hirofumi)

宏方 (also read as Hirokata)

宏道 (also read as Kōdō)

弘道 (also read as Kōdō)

広道 (also read as Kōdō)

大進 (also read as Daishin)

啓矩 (also read as Hironori)

弘信 (also read as Hironobu)

大路 (also read as Ōji, Daiji, Dairo)

広路 (also read as Hiroji)

大道 (also read as Ōmichi, Daidō, Ōdō, Masamichi)

公通 (also read as Kimimichi, Masamichi)

That’s fifty-nine different ways to write the same name.

Why so many?

Each of the different characters used for both hiro and for michi have different meanings, sometimes just slightly so. The parents can pick a character based on the precise meaning they want.

Or they can pick a character based on its stroke count (how many strokes of the pen it takes to complete—the stroke count for 大 is just 3 but for 博 the stroke count is 12).

Why would they want to do that?

This is where things get arcane, so I’ll save that discussion for another day.