The Feast of St. Michael and All Angels
St. Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
— Pope Leo XIII
The Company of Angels
In the traditional Christian calendar, September 29th is reserved for the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels; “feast,” here, meaning “festival,” which we could take to mean “celebration,” or simply “observation.” And Saint Michael himself, of course, is one of the chief angels in the shared mythos of Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and the Baháʼí Faith (depending on source and denomination, he is considered to be chief of all angels). Having defeated Satan in the war in heaven, Christian mysticism celebrates Saint Michael as the greatest of all angels
He’s kind of a big deal up there.
That Which We Call A Rose
Recently, I talked to someone about my name, and I found myself feeling almost…guilty about it. The topic of our conversation was the trials and the travails of how immigrants from South Asia living in the West pronounce their names. It can be a fraught experience, as everything from placing a Starbucks order to introducing yourself in a Zoom conference can fall apart under the weight of having to break down an unfamiliar name syllable-by-painstaking-syllable. Many immigrants resort to cutting their first names down to a single syllable. Some change their names entirely, reasoning the battle is not worth the war.
And this is where the guilt kicks in; or, worse, it’s wondering if I should feel guilty, which is its own circus of overthinking. When I think about my name in the context of what-might-have been, I wonder if I dodged a bullet. Being named “Michael,” I’ve never once had to hear my name being butchered; I’ve never had to wonder how I can best shorten my name to just get through an interaction. But being of Sri Lankan descent, I know my reality could have been very different.
What’s in a name, you might ask. Well…everything.
The “Name Problem”
In another life, I could have been given a traditional Sri Lankan name, one that encompasses my familial clan, my given names, and my surname. A writer in Canada’s The Globe and Mail tells the story of how, upon emigrating, he had to make his 43-letter, five-word name (Jasenthu Kankanamge Charith Akalanka Samarasena, if you’re wondering) fit on forms that were designed for people with names of 10 letters or less.
If I had that similar cross to bear, I imagine that my life in America would have turned out very differently. But instead, I am Michael. Mike or Mikey to my friends, but otherwise, Michael. That’s the name on my birth certificate, my passport, my driver’s license, and my still-active Facebook account. Despite the politely incredulous questioning I once received from someone who couldn’t believe that the brown kid born on the other side of the world had the name “Michael,” yes, that is my name. Always has been, always will be.
In my lesser moments, I thank God that my parents knew that a name like Michael would do me more favors than a name like, say, a patronymic Sri Lankan name like Kaluhandhilage; and in my much lesser moments, I thank God that, somewhere back in time, a Portuguese colonist introduced himself to a local Sinhalese woman (hopefully consensually), and, generations later, I have a simple three-syllable last name (and not, for example, a last name like “Kalavitigoda”).
In doing so, whoever that Portuguese colonist was blessed his descendants with what is now one of the most common last names in Sri Lanka.
The Other Side of the Door
To even talk of my two- and three-syllable names as being an advantage is privilege. A name like “Michael Perera” opens more doors in America than any combination of traditional Sri Lankan names might. And there’s loss, too; every time that “Michael Perera” name unlocks a door that would be closed to someone with, say, 40 letters in their name, I wonder what part of my heritage I traded away.
And, God help me, I wonder if that’s a bad thing.
This world can be unfair and cruel to people born in the wrong part of the world, with the wrong name, to parents who believed there was more value in keeping their cultural heritage than there was in making American life easier. And as much as I wonder what deal with the devil was made on my behalf, I look at my neat little name on my driver’s license and my email address, and I thank God that I’m through the door.
The Meaning of Michael
The conversation about the pronounceability (or perceived lack thereof) of South Asian names wasn’t new to me, and neither were my own musings on the winning lottery ticket of being a “Michael” in the English-speaking world. What was new, however, was that this conversation took place just before Michaelmas; or, as it is also known, the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels.
I have to wonder at the degree to which I would have any spiritual resonance to the figure of the archangel Michael if not for the luck of being given that name, especially from a place where that name is not commonly found. I have to wonder if this complex intersection of name, identity, belief, history, and presence would even have stayed in my mind, as doggedly as it has, if not for the sheer coincidence of having the conversation about my name a week before Michaelmas.
This has to mean something. I have to make it mean something.
Switching Codes
It would be easy, I think, to renounce the name “Michael”; to reclaim a traditional Sri Lankan name as my own, clan names and patronymic and given names and surname, as some form of anti-colonial rebellion; to look at white supremacy in its eye, and say that I owe it nothing.
It would be easy, too, I think, to disavow my Sri Lankan heritage; to say that it has no place in my life, that it is better to be in America than to be in an economically battered island nation; to look at where I came from, where my parents came from, and say that I owe it nothing.
But of course, I can’t do either of those things. The color of my skin is my story. And my name is my name. A man’s got to have a code.
Michael
So, this Feast Day of St. Michael and All Angels, I will say a prayer to that archangel, he who crushes the head of the dragon under his heel, he who is one of only four angels mentioned by name in the Bible, he whose very name asks “Who could be like God?”, he who protects the people of God and gives them peace at the end of their lives, and he who is the patron saint of everything from paramedics, paratroopers, the sick and the suffering, mariners, churches and towns all around the world, and the Holy Roman Empire itself.
I will think about what it means that my parents named me after that figure, and because they thought it would be a good name to fill out on a form when I followed the journey made by thousands of immigrants before me to the New World (giving me one of the most common first names in the world, with one of the most common last names in the Lusophone sphere).
And, perhaps the next time I hear a busy barista trip over calling out a customer’s name for their order, and the customer — maybe someone with the same color skin at me — puts that poor employee out of their misery by cutting them off before they do more damage, I will think about what it means to have my name.
