Iceland is famous for its abundance of water resources which have in many cases been harnessed to generate electricity. Although often claimed to be sustainable this has not come without sacrifice. The first hydropower station in Iceland was built in Fljót, N-Iceland in the 1940s to generate electricity for the rapidly growing herring industry in the neighbouring town of Siglufjörður.
Overlooking the reservoir to the south. Photo: Birna Lárusdóttir 2023.
The location was favorable for such a project: a deep valley nearly closed off at its furthest end by an old landslide, making it relatively easy to build a dam. The level of the reservoir rose quickly and the bottom of the valley, described as beautiful hay meadows with clear ponds and creeks, disappeared. Before all this, the so-called Stífla area (Stífla ironically translates as dam or blockage) was rich farming land, the home of many people most of whom lived on relatively small farms located uphill from the level bottom of valley. Many of the farms were abandoned in the years following the building of the dam and today none remain around the reservoir, only a few summerhouses and an old church (Knappsstaðakirkja) that had belonged to one of the earlier farms.
Although the ethics of the project were not discussed much at the time (at least not officially) this landscape intervention seems to have left deep scars on the community.
Conserving place names
In 1983 an interesting paper about the vanished place names of the area was published in Grímnir, the journal of the Icelandic Place Name Institute. It was based on a map drafted by Páll Sigurðsson, who had lived in Stífla for decades. In the mind of the author, Þórhallur Vilmundarson, who was Head of the Place Name Institute at the time, the damage done to the landscape in Stífla was immense. He suggests in the paper that places which carry curious names should generally not be damaged. If there is no other alternative, place names ought to be registered and located on a map before the destruction of an area.
Place names at the bottom of the reservoir. Map from Grímnir 2, pp. 42-43 (click on the image for a larger version).
The vanished place names of Stífla show how it was the heart of a thriving farming community – mostly fertile wetlands, pastures and meadows on which the farms built their existence. Many of the areas carried names according to their nature (as wetlands), f.ex. Útmýrar and Hringsflói. Some of the names indicate the size of meadows and how long it would take to cut the grass on them (Hamarsdagslátta, Þriggjadagasláttur – in this case one and three days).
Many parts of the banks of rivers and ponds also had names (Ytribakkar, Skriðubakki, Bakki) and yet others paint a landscape formed by creeks and ponds (Austuráll, Laufskálanes, Lambatangi) – and humans/animals. There are also names of structures related to farming activities which vanished into the deep: Völugarður – an ancient turf wall, Melbreiðarstekkur – a sheep fold, Draugatóft – literally “Ghost ruin”. And at the bottom of the center of the reservoir lies Einbúi, the alleged grave mound of the slave of Nafar-Helgi, the main settler of the area according to the twelfth-century historical work Landnámabók, ‘The Book of Settlements’.
The value of names
The names represent different values and draw up a different picture of the landscape than that which one builds up through objective description of natural elements or vegetation. Vilmundarson’s position on how place names should be valued and protected or mapped in the context of construction or other landscape change caused by humans contributed to discussion in Iceland on nature conservation and raised questions that seem to be still critical today – perhaps even more so than when the paper was published forty years ago. What happens to place names when great landscape-change takes place and what are they really worth? What is the difference between experiencing place names “in situ” – in their own settings, or reading them from a map or some other textual record?
Many hydropower plants have been built in Iceland since the one in Fljót although none of them has destroyed inhabited farmland. In some cases, place names have been mapped specifically before disappearing, f.ex. in the area which vanished under the Hálslón reservoir near Kárahnjúkar north of Vatnajökull glacier. In many other cases landscape change induced by humans takes place without any regard to place names – f.ex. through forestry, the building of large scale factories and the expansion of urban areas.
I min tjänst vid Institutet för språk och folkminnen, inom det förutvarande Namnarkivet i Uppsala (som i sin tur gick tillbaka till Ortnamnsarkivet i Uppsala och Sveriges medeltida personnamn) ingår att årligen skriva en bloggtext, som ska vända sig till den intresserade allmänheten.
Syftet med listan är att försöka standardisera stavningen av historiska personnamn, vilket jag fann rätt intressant. Men av någon anledning fastnade jag för ett kvinnonamn Ingemo, som uppgavs vara fornsvenskt (utvecklat från Ingemodh, se Otterbjörk, Svenska förnamn) och efterreformatoriskt och förekommande i Småland. Det blev nu ämnet för min text: ”Kvinnonamnet Ingemo – eller vad hände under det förra 00-talet?”.
Ämnet var alltså mer eller mindre valt på måfå, men förvånande nog rönte den ett för våra förhållanden livligt intresse när den delades på vår facebooksida. Resultatet var väl delvis slumpartat men kom sig väl också av att den kunde appellera både till släktforskare och till sådana som råkade känna en Ingemo. (En intressant upplysning som kom fram i kommentarerna var att en persons föräldrar valt Ingemo efter att ha läst Erik Dahlbergs Svecia, där Ingemo källa förekommer.) Förmodligen var det också positivt att jag nästan helt lyckades undgå att skriva om medeltiden som är min vanliga tidsperiod.
Från onomastisk synvinkel är namnet principiellt intressant, vill jag hävda, framför allt i hur det kom att återupplivas vid början av 1900-talet i Finland och Sverige, sannolikt (gissar jag) genom att det aktualiserades i strödda tidningsartiklar om ”offerkällan” Ingemo källa i Västergötland under en lång följd av år, men även i hur det kom att dö ut, i alla fall i ett fall.
Den hittills sist kända namnbäraren av det historiska namnet uppträder 1812 i en bouppteckning: Ingemo Månsdotter i Järstorps socken, Småland. Hon skrivs dock märkligt nog Ingrid i kyrkliga källor, skriver jag i bloggtexten. Min kollega Leila Mattfolk lyckades dock hitta skrivningar av henne som Ingemo och även som (troligen) Ingemor, en namnform som är känd från 1900-talet och som rimligen beror på association till namn som Lillemor. Denna association förekom alltså redan i ett kyrkligt dokument från 1780-talet. Någon kontinuitet till 1900-talets Ingemor kan knappast finnas.
Förutom urspårningar kunde man möjligen skylla Ingemo Månsdotters varierande namnformer på beröringsskräck från prästerskapets sida till den katolska (eller som hedniskt betraktade) Ingemo källa. Det vore intressant om det ginge att få tag på större material om de sista namnbärarna och komma på fastare mark.
Inom det nyligen avslutade forskningsprojektet Språkets roll i segregations– och gentrifieringsprocesser: Göteborgs språkliga landskap studerades språk och sociala processer med utgångspunkt i texter i det offentliga rummet med fokus på flerspråkighet och olika språks synlighet och funktion i olika sammanhang. En delstudie inom projektet har fokuserat på språkanvändning i moskéer. Moskéer är intressanta att studera eftersom dessa i diasporan i princip alltid är flerspråkiga platser och flerspråkigheten materialiseras ofta i namnval.
I studien Moskéer i Göteborg: Självpositionering i det urbana rummet (Nielsen et al. 2022), diskuterades hur namn- och språkval används för positionering dels gentemot majoritetssamhället, dels inom den muslimska gemenskapen utifrån namnen på ett urval moskéer i Göteborg. Nu har vi utvecklat vi våra metoder och vår analys genom att vi applicerar begreppet territoriell produktion (Kärrholm 2007) på vårt material, som utökas och utgörs av ett urval av moskéer i Oslo, Stockholm och Köpenhamn.
Materialet
De moskéer som undersöks är tre i Oslo (Islamic Cultural Centre Norway, First Central Jam-e-Mosque och Central Jamaat Ahl-e-Sunnat Norway), två i Stockholm (Stockholms moské och Fittja moské) och tre i Köpenhamn (Hamad Ben Khalifa Civilisation Center, Imam Ali Moske, och Imam Malik Instituttet). Materialurvalet har skett för att ge en bredare bild av olika moskéers etablering eftersom de undersökta moskéerna etablerats i olika politiska rum med delvis olika migrationspolitik och delvis under olika perioder.
För att göra undersökningen tydligare har endast s.k. purpose-built-moskéer, dvs. moskéer som byggts för att vara just moskéer eller renoverats grundligt för detta ändamål. Vi har valt att studera just sådana moskéer eftersom de, genom sin synliga arkitektur, överför islam från den privata till den offentliga sfären och permanentar detta synliggörandet i stadsrummet bl.a. genom namngivning.
Texter, t.ex. namnskyltar men även övriga anslag, har fotograferats såväl exteriört som interiört och analyserats. I analysen har val av språk, språkhierarki och andra semiotiska resurser beaktats.
Vår studie är en semiotisk studie inom fältet språkliga landskap där vi ser namnen, tillsammans med andra semiotiska resurser, som en del av skapandet av sociala ordningar och maktstrukturer i det offentliga rummet.
Territorialitet
Vi använder begreppet territoralitet i vår analys för att beskriva hävdandet av ett fysiskt område. Begreppet territoralitet används inom olika ämnesområden såsom sociologi, maktteori, geografi, stadsplanering, ekonomi och biologi, med varierande definitioner.
Vi inspireras i vår studie av begreppet definerat för arkitektursammanhang, eftersom den fysiska avläsbarheten i territorier som uppstår, dvs. i den fysiska miljön, betonas (Kärrholm 2007). Denna territorialisering är en process, där sociala, ekonomiska, politiska och kulturella faktorer kopplas till ett specifikt geografiskt område. Det innebär att “Territorial behavior is a self – other boundary regulation mechanism that involves personalization of or marking of a place or object and communication that it is ’owned’ by a person or a group” (Altman 1975 s. 107).
Rummet blir genom denna process mer eller mindre territorialiserat – och det pågår en territoriell produktion i förhållande till annan gemenskap – i vår studie i förhållande till majoritetssamhället. Namnen är en av flera parametrar som bidrar till denna process.
Namnen
Sammanfattningsvis kan konstateras att moskéerna i de tre städerna uppvisar olika typer av namnbildningar och vilka språk som används, både i namnbildningarna och andra texter i moskéerna, varierar.
Skylt på fasaden till First Central Jam-e-Mosque i Oslo. Foto: Tove Rosendal.Skylt på fasaden till Central Jamaat Ahl-e-Sunnat Norway i Oslo. Foto: Tove Rosendal.
Moskéerna i Oslo är grundade av pakistanska invandrare under slutet av 70-talet, början av 80-talet. Oslomoskéernas namn är framförallt bildade på arabiska, engelska och urdu och de är i princip ogenomskinliga för majoritetssamhället. De är bildade som organisationsnamn vilket bidrar till att de inte är transparenta för majoritetsbefolkningen.
Möjligen är tidsfaktorn viktig; en tidig etablering av verksamheter som är obekanta för majoritetssamhället kan ha lett till att ett internt namnbruk, att likna vid mönsternamngivning, har etablerats. Vidare använder man företrädesvis minoritetsspråk exteriört vilket bidrar till låg grad av territorialisering och moskéernas positionering sker i huvudsak i relation till den muslimska minoriteten och inte gentemot majoritetssamhället.
Stockholms moské saknar namnskylt exteriört. Foto: Maria Löfdahl.Skylt på fasaden till Fittja moské. Namnet skrivs på svenska och turkiska. Foto: Maria Löfdahl.
I Stockholm är namnen framförallt bildade på svenska. Stockholms moské har bara ett svenskt namn. Fittja moské skriver namnet både på svenska och turkiska men det svenska namnet är sannolikt det primära. Namnen i Stockholm är bildade enligt ett svenskt namnbildningsmönster och svenska är det mest synliga språket vilket kan betraktas som uttryck för assimileringssträvan.
Interiört påträffas texter på arabiska respektive turkiska i kombination med svenska men exteriört dominerar svenska. Intressant att notera är att Fittja Moské låtit sätta upp en väl synlig namnskylt i en närliggande rondell (med namnet skrivet på svenska) samt förhandlar med lokaltrafiken om att byta namn på den intill liggande busshållplatsen till Fittja moské. Genom detta positionerar man sig som en självklar del av det svenska samhället. Sammantaget bidrar detta till hög grad av territorialisering.
Namnskylt på fasaden till Hamad Bin Khalifa Civilisation Center i Köpenhamn. Foto: Helle Lykke Nielsen.Namnskylt på fasaden till Imam Ali Moske i Köpenhamn. Foto: Helle Lykke Nielsen.
I Köpenhamn är namnen på de exteriört placerade namnskyltarna bildade på arabiska, engelska och danska där danska är det vanligast förekommande. Namnen innehåller alla personnamn i förleden, ett politiskt och två religiösa namn.
Namnen har stort symbolvärde eftersom de markerar politisk och religiös inriktning, vilket kan ses som ett uttryck för religiös eller politisk branding. De är bildade enligt ett mönster som är vanligt för moskénamn i Mellanöstern, men mönstret är ändå identifierbart för den danska majoritetsbefolkningen.
Till sist…
Sammantaget visar de olika parametrarna att moskéerna i de tre länderna befinner sig på en glidande skala när det gäller grad av territorialisering. Något förenklat kan man utifrån namn och språkval dra slutsatsen att moskéerna i Stockholm uppvisar en hög grad av territorialisering och moskéerna i Oslo låg. Moskéerna i Köpenhamn befinner sig i ett mellanläge mellan de båda andra.
Studien är tentativ och syftet är delvis att metodiskt undersöka hur namn samvarierar med andra materiella och icke-materiella resurser i processen att positionera sig i diaspora. Det är även intressant att ställa sig frågan huruvida grad av territorialisering kan säga något om de olika minoritetsgruppernas integration i majoritetssamhället och om de politiska rum i vilka de bildats.
Referenser:
Altman, Irwin, 1975: The Environment and Social Behavior: Privacy, Personal Space, Territory, and Crowding. . Monterey, California: Brooks/Cole Pub.Co.
Kärrholm, Mattias, 2007: “The Materiality of Territorial Production – A Conceptual Discussion of territoriality, Materiality and Everyday Life of Public Space.” Space and Culture 10 (4): 437-453. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.1177/1206331207304356.
Nielsen, Helle Lykke, Maria Löfdahl, Tove Rosendal, Johan Järlehed, and Tommaso Milani. 2022. “Moskéer i Göteborg: Självpositionering i det urbana rummet.” NoSo – Nordisk tidskrift för socioonomastik/ Nordic Journal of Socio-Onomastics 2: 89-120.
Onomastics as a teaching subject in the Nordic countries
Onomastics as an academic teaching subject has seen major cuts in the number of available courses and generally teaching hours in the Nordics in the past two decades. According to the 2002 ICOS report on the availability of onomastics courses in Universities and other institutions of higher education in selected countries (Helleland & Gerritzen 2002), courses in name studies were offered at both bachelor’s and master’s levels in most of the larger public universities in Norway (Oslo, Bergen, Trondheim and Tromsø) and Sweden (Göteborg, Lund, Stockholm, Umeå and Uppsala). (No overview of the situation in Denmark, Finland or Iceland is provided in the report.)
The situation twenty years later is completely the opposite. In the Språkstatus 2021 report, the Norwegian Språkrådet states that there are no courses in name studies offered on regular basis in Norway despite the obvious need for onomastician skills in state administration and broadly the governmental sector. The situation is somewhat different in Sweden, but the general tendency is the same: onomastics as an academic teaching subject is being slowly dismantled. In Stockholm and Umeå, there are bachelor’s courses focusing on particular branches of onomastics, above all place-names, but also personal names (Stockholm). Halmstad University and Halmstad Municipality offered a collaborative course Namn i språk och samhälle (‘Names in language and society’) 2019. As a rule, these courses are not offered on a regular basis. Onomastics survives in many more places through dedicated teaching hours within the frame of other courses such as language history. At master’s level, there are currently two courses offered in Sweden, in Stockholm and Uppsala, but only Uppsala offers the course on a regular basis, every second year.
Onomastics as a teaching subject at Uppsala University, Sweden
In Uppsala, more specifically, at the Department of Scandinavian languages, there are no compulsory or optional onomastics courses at the bachelor’s level. Some onomastic material is however included into at least two bachelor’s courses such as The Emergence of the Swedish Language and Language Policy. Interested students can also take a popular summer course in onomastics, Place-names and Personal Names.
In general, the teaching situation implies that students can complete a bachelor’s degree in Swedish, Swedish as a Second Language or Scandinavian Languages with little to zero points in onomastics. Consequently, the dedicated course at the master’s level, Onomastics, has to cover the advanced level material such as a variety of theoretical and methodological approaches to different types of empirical name data as well as basic terminology. This obviously poses a major challenge to the teacher, especially considering that the advanced level courses include fewer teaching hours (18 hours or 9 classes á 2 teaching hours) compared to the bachelor’s courses. The main question of this blog entry is thus how to teach onomastics at advanced level to students with little or no prior knowledge of the subject?
In the following, I present the four main steps I have taken to overcome the challenge described above.
1. Pre-recorded lectures
The first step was to include pre-recorded lectures into the teaching design. The lectures in question were divided into two groups. The first group included the lectures introducing the seven themes of the course: 1) what a name is; 2) names, variation and language change; 3) names and linguistic landscapes; 4) commercial names and name commodification; 5) etymological analysis of place-names; 6) personal names and social history; and 7) personal names and identity. One more lecture introducing the field work assignment and the final examination assignment of the course was also included into this group.
In the lectures, I covered basic terminology relevant to the topic as well as topic-specific material included into the course literature. Additional literature was introduced in each lecture to offer more niched, specialized content to those students who already had or could develop a special interest in a theme. The lecture slides published separately always included references where appropriate and a literature list at the end.
The second group included optional introductory lectures of the bachelor’s level. The lectures in question, one general one, two on place-names and two more on personal names, introduced the basic terminology and other basic material usually covered at a beginner’s course in names studies. The general length of the lectures was about an hour, from 50 to 75 minutes.
Figure 1. One of the introductory pre-recorded lecture slides explaining the concept of propriality.
The pre-recorded lectures have several advantages. They allow to introduce more complex literature to, essentially, beginners because these can include thorough reviews and explanations of the course literature, also connecting the different items on the reading list to each other – a task that otherwise can cause difficulties in the classroom.
The compulsory pre-recorded lectures extend the available teaching time. They also introduce all the key items or points to be made in class and thus allow the teacher to give proper attention to any questions the students still might have after watching the lectures and reading the literature – and of course to in-class discussion, practical assignments and other elements of training.
Finally, the lectures can be consulted at any time and any difficult passage can be re-watched multiple times. I have received positive feedback on the lectures from the students, especially second language speakers, because of the possibility to “go back” and listen again and again.
2. Tie up basics to the more advanced theoretical and methodological overviews
There is no way a piece of advanced research literature can be understood without the basics. The current teaching situation in Uppsala implies the students of advanced level onomastics have little opportunity to encounter basic onomastic terminology at the bachelor’s level.
For this reason, the teacher cannot expect the students to make connections between the basics and the more advanced features of a research article and thus for instance to see how the definition of a name, or rather of names vs. non-names, affects the research design and ultimately the results of the research. This type of analysis and reasoning needs to be consciously introduced by the teacher – and to be supported by practical training throughout the course.
In the Onomastics course in Uppsala, such introduction was taken care of in the pre-recorded lectures as well as in guided in-class discussions. The supporting elements included take-home assignments to analyse research articles in accordance with a pre-formulated schema: a) objectives and research questions; b) data collection and methods for data collection; c) theoretical framework; d) analysis methods; e) results and conclusions as well as any explicit or implicit links between a), b), c), d), and e). Additionally, the pre-recorded lectures included elements of re-cap in order to capitalize on the basic knowledge received in previous lectures and to build further on this foundation, see Figure 2.
Figure 2. Follow-up pre-recorded lecture slide on propriality and language change.
3. Straightforward links to what the students already know/are expected to know
Another important aspect to actively take advantage of in the classroom situation of beginners learning advanced content is to establish links to other concepts, theoretical frameworks and methods the students are expected to know or to be acquainted with from previous generalist or specialized courses on e.g. grammar, dialectology, language variation, sociolinguistics, semantic theory, multimodal discourse analysis etc.
In such a way, the “onomastically specific” application of theoretical concepts or methods can hook into the already existing knowledge framework to speed up the learning process – and once again to build further on the general knowledge the students already possess. One such example outlined the main challenges of the linguistic landscapes research field in relation to the four generally accepted concepts of good research practice, i.e. replicability, reliability, representativity, and validity, see Figure 3.
Although the concepts in question were assumed to be known to students, the introductory lecture included short definitions. Once again, the introduction made in the dedicated pre-recorded lecture was supported by an in-class discussion as well as by a field work class that included a reflection assignment prompting the students to reflect on their own data collection work in relation to the abovementioned concepts.
Figure 3. Pre-recorded lecture slide on the main challenges of the linguistic landscapes field
4. Extracurricular teaching through collaboration with workplaces
Finally, the optional extracurricular teaching through workplace visits and workplace presentations is another way to enhance the student’s knowledge building as well as to further support their knowledge processing. In the Onomastics course, two optional workplace visits and one optional workplace presentation were included that most of the students chose to attend.
In the workplace visits to the Place-name archives at the Institute for language and folklore, Uppsala, and to Lantmäteriet, the Swedish National Mapping, Cadastre and Land Registry Authority, Gävle, the students had an opportunity to learn how professional onomasticians use the taught skills in practice when they carry out basic research or background research for any type of place- or personal-name related issues.
These sessions proved valuable and gave insight into the actual work processes in situ as well into the practical value of the acquired onomastic skills. In both cases, the presentations held by the staff at the governmental authorities complemented the discussions and the skills training conducted within the course.
Concluding remarks
To sum up, the current minimal entry requirements and broad design of the master’s level course in onomastics at Uppsala University pose challenges – but this set-up undoubtedly also has a number of advantages. The main challenge introduced in the beginning of this entry concerns the lack of previously acquired basic onomastics skills including terminological acquaintance on behalf of the students.
Essentially, one has to teach advanced materials to beginners. Additionally, the specific course design can be perceived as unfocused and somewhat “unruly” reminding of the Swedish buffet-style meal, smorgasbord, because multiple, different perspectives and onomastic sub-disciplines are introduced. At the same time, these are underpinned e.g. by the concept of propriality that constitutes a recurring common denominator and appears in many shapes throughout the course.
On the positive side, the generous entry requirements combined with an extensive course design have the advantage of attracting heterogeneous cohorts of students. It is important to offer broad courses in order to keep onomastics going as an academic discipline and as an academic teaching subject.
Onomastics is an extremely broad international field of studies. However, traditional forms of teaching within the context of Scandinavian studies in the Nordics used to lean heavily on the aspects of Nordic language history leaving “the rest” unvoiced and unattended. A broad onomastic portfolio implies there is place for emerging or maturing sub-fields such as commercial name studies or linguistic landscapes – as well as for traditional branches of onomastics such as historical toponomastics.
Finally, the advantage of teaching master’s students lies in their ability to quickly grasp the general patterns and to apply the introduced methods or lines of argumentation independently in new contexts. The teaching progression at the advanced level can thus be quicker compared to a bachelor’s course – despite little or no prior knowledge of the subject.
References
Helleland, B., & Gerritzen, D. (2002). Academic courses on onomastics. I A. A. Boullón Agrelo (Red.), Actas do XX Congreso Internacional de Ciencias Onomásticas: Santiago, 1999 (s. 55-81). Fundación Pedro Barrié de la Maza.
by Emily Lethbridge (Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies)
Mollý– a 21st-century Icelandic dog
In January 2022, my family became a family with a dog. After lengthy deliberation, we gave our labrador puppy the name Mollý. On her official vets’ certificate, she is called “Mollý Karlotta Svensen McVoff Sesarsdóttir.” Mollý’s father is called Sesar and so Mollý has the typical Icelandic –dóttir patronymic. The name Mollý was chosen in part for its associations (my English grandparents had a dog called Polly when I was a child), and in part because we liked it for its friendliness. We also thought it would be easier to call out the name Mollý from a distance than “Kleópatra” or “Aggripína” (we considered keeping the classical naming theme alive). Karlotta Svensen McVoff was added to the certificate as a joke.
Mollý. Photo: Emily Lethbridge.
Although we were not aware of it at the time, our choice of the name Mollý was made on the basis of three aspects or functions that have been identified in animal name-giving by Bjarne Rogan (cited in Leibring 2016a: 617). These aspects are the singularizing function (the practical need for identification and communication with the dog as an individual), the expressive function (a more subjective influence, in our case, the friendly sound of the name), and the ritual function (the partial recycling of the name of a former animal, in our case the adaption of Polly to Mollý). Over two years on, it turns out Mollý was a good choice though on occasion the name causes confusion as it is very close to Moli, a popular (and rather traditional) name for male dogs in Iceland. Nor were we aware at the time that ‘Molly’ is slang for the drug MDMA. For me, my partner and children, the name Mollý will first and foremost probably always be associated with a much-loved animal who is part of the family.
Sources for Icelandic dog names
The oldest sources for Icelandic dog names date from medieval times. Probably the most famous dog in all of Icelandic literature is Sámr, an Irish wolfhound given to Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi, according to Njáls saga, written in the 13th century. This exceptional dog warned Gunnarr when his enemies were approaching Hlíðarendi to attack it. Gunnarr called the dog his ‘fóstri’ (his fosterling), and tradition marks a spot at Hlíðarendi known as Sámsleiði where the dog – killed by the attackers for his loyalty to his owner – was said to be buried. Other than the sagas, older written sources that preserve Icelandic dog names include the 13th-century work Snorra Edda, and Icelandic folk-tales recorded for the most part in the 19th century (see further Guðrún Kvaran). A considerable body of traditional rhyming verses (þulur) exist too, in which names of dogs, horses, sheep etc are listed. Most extensively and recently, a great deal of information is to be found in answers to two surveys sent out in 1987 by the Folkloristics department of the National Museum of Iceland, one on dogs, and the other about domestic and farm animals more generally. The surveys in question were ‘Hundurinn’, spurningaskrá number 66, 1987–1 and ‘Auðkenni og nöfn húsdýra’, spurningaskrá number 68, 1987–3.
Icelandic dog names in the 20th century
Answers to the two 1987 surveys indicate that dog names in the 20th century were overwhelmingly chosen on the basis of the animal’s colour, coat-patterning or temperament and characteristics, and that this tradition was a long-established one. Many of those who supplied answers were born at the end of the 19th century or in the first couple of decades of the 20th century. As with Icelandic anthroponyms, dog names were traditionally gendered; male dogs were given grammatically masculine names and females grammatically feminine names. Some examples include Sámur, Skuggi, Krummi and Kolur for male dogs that were black or dark in colouring; Týri (m.) or Týra (f.) for a dog with a white or light tip to its tail; Strútur or Hringur for a male dog with a white collar or ruff; Depill or Flekkur for a male dog with a spotty or patched coat; Kópur, Kópi or Selur for a short-haired male dog, sometimes grey and resembling a seal in colouring; Stubbur for a male dog with a short tail; Lubbi, Flóki and Brúsi for shaggy-haired male dogs; Spori for a male dog with large paws. Tryggur was used for a male dog with a faithful temperament; Kátur for male dogs that were playful, happy puppies; Vaskur for a male dog with a courageous temperament; Hvatur for a male dog that was fast and quick in its actions; Sendill for a male dog that was speedy when rounding up livestock.
There was typically little overlap between anthroponyms and dog names. Some exceptions occurred when the names of foreign historical figures or leaders were adopted as dog names, e.g. Napóleon, Neró, Sesar, Plató – and (uncomfortably) Hitler, Göring, Stalín, Mússolini. In these latter cases, disapproval is indicated in some answers. On the name Hitler, one participant stated it to be “a dubious honour for dogs to bear these names.” Another participant noted that the dog in question “made up for the name with his qualities and intelligence, so that it wasn’t quite so awful.” Although we don’t know when the dog was born or given his name, he was alive during WWII, and the participant included the following anecdote: “This Hitler lived near Sauðárkrókur [a town in the north of Iceland], and a large number of soldiers were here in the town during the war; Hitler’s owner called to the dog when they passed the army camp and the soldiers rushed over to him, and there was quite a delay, since the dog’s owner had to prove that the dog was called Hitler, and he himself could not speak any English.”
Other foreign anthroponyms given to Icelandic dogs included Don and Jock (probably inspired by the presence of American troops in Iceland from WWII onwards) and Spasskí (a puppy at the time when Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky played their famous World Chess Championship game in Reykjavík in 1972). Very few examples of dogs with Icelandic personal names are given in the survey answers, though one owner called his female dog Hrefna, and explained: “My lovely Hrefna didn’t get her name on account of her glossy black colour. No, it was her beautiful deep eyes that always reminded me of a beautiful girl in the next-door house when I was a 6-year-old in Vopnafjörður. Always when I looked into my Hrefna’s eyes I was reminded of Hrefna with the beautiful eyes in Vopnafjörður.” Here it might be noted that although in the medieval sources Sámur is an anthroponym as well as a dog name (e.g. Sámur Bjarnason in Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða), the name subsequently dropped out of the Icelandic anthroponymicon — no men called Sámur are found in sources such as census records from the early 18th century to present day.
Overall, Icelandic dog-naming practices in the 20th century probably reflect conventions and usage in earlier times, and they seem to be fairly well-aligned with traditions elsewhere in Scandinavia and the world (Leibring 2016a: 623). Occasionally, the Icelandic dog name provided an opportunity for a benign joke: one woman (b. 1923) called her dog ‘Sama og þú’ (‘the same as you’) for the fun of giving that answer when people asked the dog’s name. Leibring gives examples of Swedish dogs called Gissa (‘Guess’) and Fråg’en (‘Ask’im’) that work along similar lines (2016b: 115). Whether or not the Icelandic tradition of calling several generations of dogs the same name is found elsewhere is unclear. A few examples of this phenomenon are found in the sources, e.g. an individual born in 1903 who noted that “My father’s dogs were called Hrafn. When the first gave up the ghost [i.e. died], pabbi got another black dog that was given the name Hrafn.”
Icelandic dog names in the 21st century
When contemporary dog names are studied, a marked shift in naming can be seen. A much more recent questionnaire sent out by the National Museum of Iceland in 2016 asks a series of questions about pets and attitudes towards them. Questions about current pet-naming habits, and whether participants see any shifts in naming trends, are included. Many participants in their answers note that names for dogs in Iceland are in general more varied than they were, and that it is now common to use anthroponyms (both Icelandic and foreign) as dog names. Ambivalent, positive and negative attitudes towards this shift are communicated in some comments (“names are more original”; “names are more varied”; “times change and so do people’s and pets’ names”; “Some people give their pets human names. That seems strange to me”). Occasionally, disapproval regarding this development is explicit and anxiety at what is perceived as a kind of cultural loss, perhaps the watering down of Icelandic identity, is hinted at: “It seems as though more pets are given foreign names which isn’t to my taste, since I want to uphold Icelandic traditions” (b. 1966); “I never hear the dog’s name Snati any more, that’s a shame. It’s also always strange to see a light-coloured dog that is called Kolur for example. It’s a bad thing if old animal names are lost though it’s inevitable, as with good old personal names” (b. 1965).
Some participants articulate thoughts on why this shift has occurred. One individual writes that “pet-names have become more personal over recent years or decades, my feeling is that this happened after pets were moved out of the country and changed from being partly work-animals to additions to families. Dogs called Snati and Lappi are at least less common than they were, and I have met a dog that was called Jón Þormarr after the owner’s grandfather”. With reference to the first part of this comment, it is only relatively recently that dogs have been officially allowed in urban areas as pets: between 1924 and 1984 dogs were banned in Reykjavík, with dog-keeping in the city only fully legalized in 2006 (see Laxdal 2014). A more fluid and creative attitude towards dog names may also be linked to a shift in attitudes towards personal names in Iceland that has gained momentum in recent years. As is well-known, laws controlling personal names are in place in Iceland and any name that is not on the ‘official’ list must be submitted to the Icelandic Naming Committee (mannanafnanefnd) for approval (see e.g. Willson 2023). Recent years have seen amendments to these laws and some restrictions have been loosened as arguments for greater personal freedom with regard to naming practices gain traction. A bill proposing further changes to current laws regarding personal names is currently being considered.
Katharina Leibring has identified a trend in Sweden where baby names are influenced by popular dog names, and claims that “two-way traffic, whereby names can wander from humans to animals and back again, has evolved in recent decades, possibly as a consequence of the widespread anthropomorphisation of companion animals” (2016b: 117–118). It may be that we are seeing the beginnings of such a trend in Iceland, although the legal restrictions regarding personal names mentioned above mean that dog names can’t easily be a “testing-ground” for new baby names in the same way as they may be in Sweden. Nevertheless, one 2016-questionnaire informant does comment that dog names “are becoming closer to people’s names, because more people are giving their children pet-names.” At the time of writing, my request to access dog name data in the Dýraauðkenni pet-database established by the Icelandic Veterinarians’ Society (Dýralæknafélag Íslands) is still pending but if granted, these data will offer rich possibilities for further research on the subject. Clearly, as with anthroponyms, ideology and questions of identity have always played a part in Icelandic dog naming traditions – sometimes obviously and sometimes obliquely – and continue to do so.
Leibring, Katharina, 2016a. ‘Animal Names’. In The Oxford Handbook of Names and Naming. Edited by Carole Hough. Pp. 615–627.
Leibring, Katharina, 2016b. ‘Names of Companion Animals: Rovers in the Onomasticon?’ In Names and Their Environment. Proceedings of the 25th International Congress of Onomastic Sciences, Glasgow, 25–29 August 2014. Vol. 5. Literary Onomastics. Other Names. Commercial Names. Edited by Carole Hough and Daria Izdebska. Pp.114–122.
Det er sikkert ikke så få personer gennem tiden, der er blevet drillet med deres navne. Nogle bare godmodigt, andre decideret mobbet. Flere af sådanne navnebærere har formentlig da indimellem kunnet ønske sig et andet navn, og enkelte har ligefrem taget konsekvensen og fået en navneændring. Som det skal ses i det følgende, er “mobbeafledte navneændringer” imidlertid ikke blot et fænomen i personnavneregi, idet også hele landsbysamfund i sjældne tilfælde har ønsket at skifte stednavn af selvsamme årsag.
I dansk stednavneændringshistorie er især to sager alment kendte i fagmiljøet: Rumperup og Gumperup, der blev til henholdsvis Højsted og Klinteby (jf. Dalberg 1991 s. 183-184). Selv blandt danske navneforskere er det dog nok de færreste, der kender til sagernes nærmere detaljer, og da desuden gode historier ikke kan blive fortalt for tit, kommer her den fulde beretning om dem begge. Alle de refererede akter stammer fra Stednavneudvalgets Brevarkiv hos Arkiv for Navneforskning, Københavns Universitet.
Fra Rumperup til Højsted
På den nordvestlige del af Sjælland (i Bregninge sogn, Ars h.) ligger – eller rettere lå – landsbyen Rumperup. Navnet er belagt fra 1300-tallet (*1355 Rumperop, 1463 Rumprop) og er en sammensætning med hovedleddet glda. thorp ‘udflytterbebyggelse’, hvor forleddet snarest er et mandstilnavn glda. Rumpi (Jørgensen 2008 s. 138) eller dettes bagvedliggende substantiv glda. rumpe ‘hale, bagende’ (DgP II:2 sp. 901). I nutidens dansk har rumpe fået den kollokviale betydning ‘bagdel’ om kropsdelen på både dyr og mennesker. Og det var man tilsyneladende lidt træt af at blive associeret med i Rumperup. Den 24. november 1924 modtog Indenrigsministeriet således et brev underskrevet “samtlige Beboere i Rumperup”, hvor man ansøgte om forandring af landsbynavnet til Højsted. Ansøgningen var således begrundet:
Til Støtte for vort Andragende skal vi bortset fra rent æstetiske Grunde anføre, at det nuværende Navn i mange henseender er generende for Byens Bekvem og til Belysning heraf fremføres, at Byens halvvoksne Ungdom, naar den opholder sig paa fremmede Steder, Ungdomsskoler eller lignende trykker sig ved at nævne deres Fødebys Navn, da dette saa at sige altid medfører Latter og Drillerier fra Kammeraternes Side, ligesom det er generende for Byens Beboere, at de ikke uden at blive hilst med Latter kan nævne Byens Navn til de mange Turister, der om Sommeren passerer gennem Byen […].
Som begrundelse for beboernes afløsende navneforslag blev det fremført, at »Højsted er betegnende for Byens høje og frie Beliggenhed.« Det kan bekræftes, at landsbyen ligger i et efter danske forhold vældig kuperet landskab, mens navnet Højsted var en til lejligheden aldeles ny konstruktion.
Nu var sagen faktisk ikke et anliggende for Indenrigsministeriet, som havde modtaget den, men derimod for Landbrugsministeriet, men inden den gik videre til afgørelse, blev den rundsendt til høring hos diverse relevante myndigheder, inden den blev forelagt Stednavneudvalgets kontor den 29. januar. Af disse myndigheder havde kun Holbæk Amt den bemærkning, at man intet havde at indvende imod ønsket om en navneændring, men »at man havde foretrukket et Bynavn, der ikke var saa almindeligt som Højsted og som mulig vil kunne give Anledning til Forveksling.« Indenrigsministeriet erklærede sig enig heri. Selvom det foreslåede navn ganske rigtigt kan lyde ret “almindeligt”, så findes der imidlertid faktisk ikke andre landsbyer af navnet i Danmark (hvorimod det er og var ganske udbredt som gårdnavn).
Hos Stednavneudvalget vurderede kontorchef Gunnar Knudsen i et indledende internt brev af 30. januar 1925 hele affæren som “en meget vanskelig Sag”, inden den blev forelagt resten af det høje udvalg. Igen var det ikke fravalget af navnet Rumperup, der tyngede, men derimod det alternative navneforslag: »Personlig finder jeg, at Højsted lyder temmelig “fladt” og vilde gerne finde noget bedre. Men hvad skal man gøre i en saadan Sag?« Efter at sagen havde været oppe på et møde i udvalget, kunne man den 13. februar 1925 meddele ministeriet:
at man maa anse den af Beboerne anførte Grund til at søge Navneforandring for fyldestgørende, men at man, ligesom Amtet, finder, at det valgte Navn, Højsted, er lovlig almindeligt. Udvalget ser ikke Nødvendigheden af at indføre et moderne konstrueret Navn af denne Art, da der kan findes mange gamle Stednavne i Sognet fra ældre Tid, der vilde egne sig til at blive ophøjet til Bynavn. Særlig vilde Udvalget henlede Opmærksomheden paa Navnet Højold, et Marknavn fra selve Byen, der findes i Markbogen fra 1683 […].
Stednavneudvalget kunne derfor kun subsidiært give den valgte konstruerede navneform Højsted sin tilslutning. Den 7. april svarede Landbrugsministeriet tilbage, at forslaget nu havde været i høring lokalt. Af dette fremgik det, at »Beboerne i Rumperup paany anholder om, at Navnet Rumperup maa ændres til Højsted, subsidiært Højkilde, da Navnet Højold ikke har vundet Beboernes Tilslutning.« Den 20. april måtte Gunnar Knudsen på vegne af udvalget således afgive følgende endelige indstilling:
Saaledes foranlediget skal Udvalget udtale, at da Forsøg paa at anvende ældre Navnemateriale fra selve Stedet synes at have vanskeligt ved at vinde almindelig Tilslutning, vil der fra Udvalgets Side ikke haves noget at erindre imod, at Byens Navn i Overensstemmelse med Beboernes derom udtalte principale Ønske ændres til Højsted.
Navneændringen fra Rumperup til Højsted blev formelt godkendt af Landbrugsministeriet den 24. juli 1925.
Ikke blot rimer navnene Rumperup og Gumperup på hinanden, de to relaterede navneændringssager minder også ganske meget om hverandre, og det er vel end ikke usandsynligt andet end at sagen om Gumperup blev direkte afledt af den ovenfor beskrevne om Rumperup. Nogen forbindelse imellem sagerne nævnes dog ingensteds i akterne. Man kan imidlertid formode, at den imødekommende afgørelse på navneændringssagen for Rumperup har fået en del medieomtale, og mindre end et halvt år efter modtog Landbrugsministeriet en tilsvarende ansøgning fra beboerne i Gumperup, der er – eller var – en landsby på sydspidsen af Sjælland (i Karrebæk sogn, Øster Flakkebjerg h.).
På et møde i Gumperup den 1. oktober 1925 skrev 29 repræsentanter for byens i alt 31 husstande under på følgende anmodning:
Undertegnede Beboere i Gumperup andrager herved ærbødigst om, at Landsbyen Gumperup maa faa Navneforandring og for Fremtiden komme til at hedde Klintby. Naar vi fremsender dette Andragende er Grunden den, at vi finder det nuværende Navn uheldigt, det lyder jo mere sjældent end smukt, hvorimod Navnet Klintby ikke alene lyder velklingende, men ogsaa er ret betegnende, da Byen ligger ved Klinten ud mod Smaalandshavet.
Også betydningsmæssigt minder Gumperup og Rumperup om hinanden. Navnet Gumperup er belagt fra 1200-tallet (*1290 Gompetorp, 1387 Gumporp, 1566 Gomperop) og har som hovedled substantivet glda. thorp ‘udflytterbebyggelse’, der her snarest er sammensat med et mandstilnavn glda. *Gumpi, afledt af substantivet gump ‘gump, bagen af fugl (især and og gås)’ (DS 24 s. 216). Også her anvendes den egentlige fugleanatomiske betegnelse kollokvialt om ‘bagdel på menneske’.
En kopi af ansøgningen blev sendt til det lokale sogneråd i Karrebæk, med den supplerende oplysning, at de to manglende beboere »ikke ønskede at underskrive, men iøvrigt intet havde at indvende mod Navneforandringen.« Mens sognerådet kunne støtte ansøgningen fra Gumperup, havde politimesteren i Næstved pudsigt nok en del indsigelser at gøre imod den. Politimester Schmits indvendinger af den 24. oktober havde intet at gøre med hans egentlige politimæssige myndighedsområde, men byggede tydeligvis på en personlig interesse for det stednavnehistoriske.
Som det vil ses af Kortet findes der i den Egn, hvor Gumperup er beliggende […] en hel del Byer, hvis Navne ender paa rup (torp), jeg skal nævne: Grimstrup, Skraverup, Bistrup, Karebækstorp, Gumperup, Menstrup, Brorup, Spjellerup, […] Bisserup, Nyrup, Tostrup, hvoraf fremgaar, at Bebyggelsen paa disse kanter er af forholdsvis yngre Oprindelse. Hvis man derfor vilde give Gumperup et andet Navn, vilde det af historisk-topografiske Grunde være rimeligt, at det nye Navn ikke i sin Betegnelse kom til at give et forkert Indtryk af Byens Alder. Navnet Klintby – det burde iøvrigt hedde Klinteby – indicerer imidlertid en meget ældre Bebyggelse end “Torperne”, og det burde derfor lages under Overvejelse, om man ikke kunde foreslaa andre Former […].
Heller ikke her var det således tanken om at droppe det oprindelige navn, der vakte modstand, men derimod det foreslåede nye navn. Politimesteren foreslog herefter flere alternative nye navnekonstruktioner, som han endda havde undersøgt den eksisterende udbredelse af rundt om riget. Den onomastisk lærde politimesters indvendinger gjorde indtryk på amtsrådet, der i sin endelige følgeskrivelse af 5. januar 1926 til ansøgningen kunne meddele:
at Amtsraadet intet har imod, at Landsbyens Navn forandres, men at samme ikke finder, at Navnet bør ændres til Klintby, hvorimod saavel Amtsraadet som Amtet vil mene, at Klinterup eller Klinttorp baade vil falde naturligt og svare til Stednavnene fra den Tid, Landsbyen antagelig har sin Oprindelse.
Underligt nok var amtsrådets forslag Klinterup ikke med på den lange liste over den torp-bevidste politimesters alternative navneforslag, og må derfor anses for amtsrådets eget supplerende konstruktionsforslag.
Der var således mange gode forslag og stednavnehistoriske betragtninger at støtte sig på, da Landbrugsministeriet i februar 1926 kunne sende sagen i høring hos Stednavneudvalget. Her vurderede man i første omgang, at forleddet i navnet måtte være afledt af mandsnavnet Gunbjørn, og kun:
ved Navnets Omdannelse og Afslidning i Tidens Løb er det blevet saaledes, at det kan virke anstødeligt. Bedst vilde det vel historisk set være at rekonstruere Navnet til Gunbjørnetorp, men da dette vel kan have vanskeligere ved at blive gængs end et helt nyt Navn, vil det muligvis nok være mere praktisk at vælge det sidste. […] Uagtet udvalget af principielle Grunde helst modsætter sig Ændringer af de gamle Landsbynavne, vil man dog under de foreliggende Omstændigheder ikke finde det urimeligt at imødekomme Andragendet.
Stednavneudvalget havde således tydeligvis lært af Rumperup-sagen, at historisk korrekte rekonstruktionsnavne ikke let vandt begejstring hos de lokale. Hvad angår politimesterens og amtsrådets udtrykte bekymring for konstruktion af et aldersmæssigt misvisende by-navn i et torp-område, tog udvalget det betydeligt mere afslappet:
Om man der vil vælge Klintby eller Klinterup – begge Navne turde være forsvarlige – maa bero paa et Skøn, og Udvalget kan ikke indse, at det, som Politimesteren anfører, vil være uforsvarligt at bruge Klintby, fordi man derved ligesom skulde hensætte den nævnte Landsby til en ældre Navneklasse; Navne paa ‑by kan dannes den Dag i Dag, fordi By er et i Sproget levende Ord, som det falder naturligt at bruge, ogsaa i moderne Dannelser.
Heller ikke protesten imod Klintby frem for Klinteby fik meget støtte i Stednavneudvalget, idet begge sammensætninger var udbredte i både stednavne og talesprog, men hvis man endelig skulle pege på den ene form frem for den anden, så ville udvalget »nærmest være tilbøjelig til at give Klinteby Fortrinnet.«
Enden – eller gumpen, om man vil – på sagen blev, at Landbrugsministeriet den 23. marts 1926 kunne meddele tilladelse til, at Gumperup by og ejerlav herefter skiftede navn til Klinteby.
Navneændringen afstedkom i øvrigt en ny henvendelse allerede to dage efter fra Det Kongelige Søkort-Arkiv med en forespørgsel om, hvorvidt det så også betød, at det nærliggende naturnavn Gumperup Klint så også skulle ændres til Klinteby Klint? Dette dengang sikkert lidt uventede efterspil illustrerer ganske godt de følgevirkninger, der endnu i dag gælder ved stednavneændringer, som ofte også inddrager en række afledte stednavne. Udvalgets svar på henvendelsen har da langt henad vejen også gyldighed den dag i dag:
Saaledes foranlediget skal man udtale, at det efter Udvalgets Skøn vil være rettest at gennemføre Navneændringen ogsaa i Tilfælde som det foreliggende, og altså skrive Klinteby Klint, men at Udvalget i øvrigt savner Kompetence til at træffe Afgørelse i Spørgsmaalet.
Beboerne i Rumperup og Gumperup fik således i midten af 1920’erne lov til at udskifte landsbyernes navne til noget mere anstændigt og velklingende. Som én, der i 1980’erne dagligt tog bussen igennem Højsted på turen til og fra Kalundborg Gymnasium, kan jeg imidlertid supplere, at der da endnu i lokalbefolkningen var udmærket kendskab til bebyggelsens oprindelige navn, som man ikke undlod hyppigt at gøre Højsted-beboerne opmærksomme på, nu med den humoristiske tilføjelse, at de jo kunne overveje endnu en navneændring til Højrumperup.
Selvom Stednavneudvalget i de to her gengivne sager imødekom de lokale ønsker om en stednavneændring, så kom sagerne langt fra til at danne almindelig præcedens, og der er faktisk flere efterfølgende eksempler på, at beslægtede ansøgninger blev afslået af udvalget. Men de historier kan jo passende blive temaet for mit næste blogindlæg.
Litteratur:
Dalberg 1991 = Vibeke Dalberg, Stednavneændringer og funktionalitet (Navnestudier 33), København 1991.
DgP II = Danmarks gamle Personnavne : Tilnavne, red. G. Knudsen, M. Kristensen & R. Hornby, København 1954-64.
DS 24 = Stednavne i Vestsjællands Amt (Danmarks Stednavne 24), red. B. Jørgensen, København 2001.
Jørgensen 2008 = Bent Jørgensen, Danske stednavne (3. udgave), København 2008.
In Norway we have had fixed surnames for, roughly speaking, a century. The first Norwegian name law came into place in 1923. Every child born after this would be given their father’s last name, or if the parents were unmarried, either their mother’s or their father’s last name. Hence, last names that had previously changed from one generation to the next, or when the name user moved from one farm to another, now became fixed surnames.
The main purpose of the law was to create order amongst the lower classes in society, making it easier for the police, the poor people’s aid, and others to know which individuals they were in touch with. One way of doing so, was to make sure they kept the same last name throughout life. Unless you were a woman, as women should take their husband’s surnames, and the children should get their father’s surname.
Law and order were needed to avoid misidentification amongst the lower classes in society, in effect making all Norwegians follow the norms that had become practice for the higher classes during the 19th century. Turning such a practice into law, would also ensure that Norway followed suit with other, as was argued, more modern European countries (Department of Justice and Police 1922).
But my aim here is not to write about how the practices changed during the decades before and after 1900 (for this, see for example Utne 2001; Torp 2018; Utne 2011). Rather, my aim is to write about how the naming practices of the 1923-law, by the 2010s was described in terms of tradition rather than law by Norwegian men. I wrote my PhD-thesis about Norwegian men in heterosexual relationships and their name choices in couples, and this article is based on a chapter where I discuss the meaning of tradition in surname choices (Grønstad 2020, 153-207).
Method and material
First, a few words about method and material. The material consists of responses from self-identified men on two qualitative questionnaires, i.e. lists of open-ended questions, on surnames and surname choices. In the first questionnaire (2014), aimed at a general Norwegian reading public, these questions had to do with surname changes by the person responding to the questions, or by persons close to them, thoughts of children’s surnames and accounts of reactions from others on the name choices. The second was aimed specifically at men who had changed their surnames to their wife’s or woman partner’s surname (2016). I did close readings of the 101 responses from men to the first questionnaire, plus the 60 responses to the second, to discover potential themes and patterns.
The current surname situation for Norwegian couples
Before I go into these themes and patterns, I wish to provide some more information on the choices Norwegian men and women make. As part of my PhD-work I developed statistics for the situation in 2018 amongst Norwegian couples (Grønstad 2020, 105-109). Those who were married or had been married during the first two decades of 2000s were included in the sample. Most Norwegian men kept their surnames when they married. Between 4 and 5% took their wife’s surnames as their own surnames. A few more combined their surnames with their wife’s, either with a hyphen or by taking it as a middle name. In Norway a middle name is a name of surname type, that is placed after the first names. Formally it counts as a first name, not as a surname.
Type of action
Women
Men
Kept the full name unchanged
41%
87%
Took the partner’s surname only
26,5%
1,8%
Took the partner’s surname as a middle name
6,2%
4,2%
Took the partner’s surname. Kept the previous surname as a middle name
20,1%
2,4%
Hyphen
1,5%
2,2%
Other
4,7%
2,4%
Total
100%
100%
Table 1. These are the different choices made by men as a group compared to women as a group.
Women take their partner’s surname to a much higher degree. Almost half of the women change their surnames, and almost half keep their surnames. A very few women hyphen their surnames with their partner’s. For some of the women changers, surname continuity is ensured to a certain degree through keeping their original surname as a middle name, and some of the women who keep their surnames, take their partner’s surname as a middle name.
Keeping and using men’s surnames as tradition
One theme in the responses to the two quantitative questionnaires was an understanding of the past in the present, often described as “tradition”. Throughout, tradition within surname choices equalled the use of the men’s surnames, meaning that men kept their family name throughout life, women change in marriage with men, and children get their father’s surname. These were the practices formulated as law in 1923, and kept and slightly amended in 1949, and 1964. The laws regarding surname choices was made gender equal in 1979 and came with even more possibilities in the newest law from 2003. One example is the possibility to connect two surnames with a hyphen, which was not a possible option before 2003.
The men positioned themselves in relation to certain understandings of tradition, and I found three such patterns. Within the first pattern, tradition as preference of men’s surnames was taken for granted, and tradition was associated with something positive. Within the second pattern, tradition was also understood as the preference of the man’s surname, but here this tradition was criticized or even outrightly dismissed. Within the third pattern, tradition was re-imagined in new ways, and these men drew on notions of continuity and connections with past relatives and practices, while adding a perspective of gender equality to the mix.
The first pattern
Amongst older men and name keepers in marriage more generally, the understanding of tradition as something worth following, or practices that could be taken for granted was quite common. One man wrote that he married almost 50 years ago during a time when “the old naming traditions was common where I lived” (born in 1938). Following tradition had certain values, and this tradition supported men as a group, affording them surname continuity through life as well as the possibility of sharing surnames both with their birth family and the nuclear family of their own creation. Another man who kept his family name when he married in the late 1970s, wrote: «It has never been a topic to change or not to change […]. [An a]lternative situation is so hypothetical that I have no answer to this» (born in 1952). Theirs was a privilege some of the younger men no longer took for granted:
«I wish to continue the family name, and I am the only one from my generation who can do that. This feels like a very patriarchical and paternalistic point of view, something I am not 100% comfortable with, but I still feel like this is something I really wish to do» (born in 1983).
He grew up in the 1980s and 1990s and saw gender equality as important. This made it difficult to take surname continuity for granted even though he was a man.
The second pattern
Some took this reflexivity further, by questioning the basis for the tradition. One argument was that the interpretation of tradition as using the man’s surname was a newer custom, and that the older custom had been for both husband and wife to keep their surnames as these were usually their father’s first name with a -son or -daughter attached. The couple would change additional surnames whenever they moved, as the name of the farms they lived on, often provided a combined last name and address. One of the men who took his wife’s surname as early as the early 1980s, argued that present day wedding customs are neither Norwegian nor gender equal. Both women’s surname change and the practice where the father follow the bride up the church floor to hand her over to her new husband “as a package” are imports as well as of a newer date than previous customs, he argued (born in 1959).
The older traditions were both more original and more gender equal. Other men argued that they did not want to follow some “old traditions” at all. One example of this is a man who took his wife’s surname for several reasons. Most importantly for him was that they “wanted to create something of their own rather than just continue with something old” (born in 1991). Just because something was old did not mean it should guide their present-day actions, but it could be dismissed.
The third pattern
Some disregarded traditions completely but the notion of continuity and connection with past practices and ways of life was attractive to some of the men who changed their names:
“When we had children in 2010, we decided to give the children my wife’s surname because it is a name connected to a place where she has roots and with a strong family tradition, a name which is unique to her kin, while my name had no history, no connection to a place, and many others that we are not related to, also share it” (born in 1983).
Instead of taking the concept of tradition to equal the use of the man’s surname, these men looked at the surnames and searched for name continuity with the past, either through choosing the wife’s last name and her name continuity, or by choosing to give their children new names based on older customs such as using the first name of one of the parents with a -son or -daughter attached.
Conclusion
Tradition is a vital concept in the understanding of surnames, both among men who keep their last names and men who make changes. Tradition understood as the preference of the man’s surname, work as a guidance to action that favour men and men’s lineage. Breaking with tradition may come with a cost not all men are willing to pay. However, leaving gender out of the equation, shifting tradition to mean continuity with the past, the concept of tradition may continue to be important and vital. It may add more possibilities to think about surname choices for all, not only women.
Förr i tiden försvann namn ibland, någon som har förklarats med att kulturella förändringar, såsom kristendomens införande, har påverkat namnskicket så att många förnamn byttes ut. Att studera namns försvinnande i modern tid är dock betydligt mer komplicerat. Försvinner ens förnamn längre?
Under de senare seklerna har några stora förändringar vad gäller namnskicket ägt rum. En av dessa är införandet av flernamnssystemet som tillåter att svenska barn i teorin bär hur många förnamn som helst, även om bara ett av dem används som tilltalsnamn. En annan är det ökande inflödet av namn som hör till något annat kulturområde eller till andra etniska grupper. Som en konsekvens av bland annat detta kan man notera att antalet förnamn i Sverige ökar. År 1973 fanns ca 80 000 förnamn i Sverige (Allén och Wåhlin 1995:11) och enligt SCB finns för närvarande ca 441 000 förnamn (238 000 olika kvinnonamn och 203 000 olika mansnamn).
Den första skillnaden mellan ett namns och ett vanligt ords existens är att det behövs någon att namnge för att namnet ska vara synbart. Samtidigt kan mycket väl ett namn bevaras i någons minne, för att om tillfälle ges användas igen, även om namnet inte har burits på lång tid. Det skulle alltså gå att hitta gamla förnamn genom t.ex. släktforskning, eller en vandring över kyrkogårdar.
Man brukar räkna med att förnamnens popularitet går i cykler om ca 100 år, men tack vare flernamnssystemet kan de ligga och pyra utan att de syns. I slutet av 1800-talet och tidigt 1900-tal var det många flickor som fick t.ex. namnen Augusta, Gustava och Oskaria, men det är svårt att se att det runt millenniumskiftet, hundra år senare, fanns något större intresse för dem bland namngivarna. De här namnen verkar ligga pyrt till, även om de fortfarande existerar i vårt gemensamma onomastikon.
Men det kanske inte är själva namnformerna som är intressanta, utan namntrenden? Runt år 1900 var det t.ex. modernt med namn som hade en betydelse som uppfattades som genomskinlig av namnbrukarna, t.ex. Hulda, Milda, Rara. Nu för tiden är troligen inte kopplingen till betydelsen lika självklar för namngivarna och därför kanske just dessa namnformer är utbytta mot andra mer genomskinliga namn, t.ex. Lykke / Lycke och Tindra och Ängla?
Slutligen, hur är det med ett namn som Adolf, vars popularitet har rasat efter 2:a världskriget? Kommer det att bli modernt igen, eller kan det snart betraktas som lika utdött som vikinganamnet Orm?
Forskingsnettverker vårt heiter New Trends in Nordic Socio-onomastics. Tittelen eller nemninga er ikkje uproblematisk. I dette vesle blogginnlegget presenterer eg nokre utfordringar til dei tre syntagmastiske einingane New Trends, Nordic og Socio-onomastics.
New Trends
Kva tyder eigenleg New Trends her? Kva skulle i tilfelle Old Trends in Nordic Scio-onomastics vera for noko? For New Trends bør vel stå i motsetning til noko anna, og som rimeleg sett burde vera Old Trends. Og så lenge ein ikkje veit noko presist om kva Old Trends i sosioonomastikken er, altså så lenge det er uklart kva New Trends kontrasterer, vert det òg ei utfordring å avgrensa kva New Trends måtte vera.
Sosioonomastikken er ein relativit ny disiplin, slik at det prinsipielt kan vera vanskeleg å identifisera kva gamle trendar i sosioonomastikken skulle vera for noko.
No kan ein sjølvsagt løysa det problemet ved å seia at ‘gamalsosioonomastikken’ er innkorporert eller vevd inn i eldre lingvistiske/sosiolingvistiske prosjekt som har forskings- og datalikskapar med ‘nysosioonomastikken’. Men om det skulle vera tilfellet, altså at ein vurderer eldre pre-onomastiske studiar som sosioonomastiske studiar, vert jo det litt anakronistisk.
Nordic
Dessutan, kva ligg det i Nordic Soscio-onomastics? Er der sosioonomastiske studiar utførte av nordiske forskarar – som danskar, svenskar, islendingar, færingar, grønlendarar, finnar og nordmenn? Eller tyder det sosioonomastiske studiar som byggjer på nordiske data? Eller er kan henda nordisk i denne samanhengen avgrensa til studiar som lingvistisk sett representerer dei nordiske språka?
Socio-onomastics
Lekkane New Trends og Nordic kan me seia er utmerkingslekkar, the specifiers, til Socio-onomastics som er hovudlekken eller the generic. Og hovudlekken, the generic, altså Soscio-onomastics, er kanskje den mest utfordrande lekken, sjølv om verken New Trends og Nordic er spesielt enkle å ha med å gjera. Hovudutfordringa med lekken Socio-onomastics er at den er knytt til ei fagleg disiplinær kategorisering som er uavklart.
Kategorisering
Ein av grunnane til at ein deler vitskapar inn i kategoriar, er at dei vitskapane som høyrer til ein bestemt kategori har visse kjenneteikn, visse særtrekk, som knyter dei saman og som skil dei frå andre kategoriar. Slike kategoriseringstilhøve er ikkje spesielle for vitskapar, men gjeld òg for gruppering av alle mogelege fysiske og mentale tilhøve. Kategoriseringar er naudsynte for å sortera alle dei impulsane som me dagleg får eksternt og internt livet gjennom. Utan kategoriseringsmekanismar og kategoriseringsmodellar ville verda og vitskapar vera kaos.
Kategoriseringsnivå
Til å byrja med grovsorterer, grovkategoriserer, ein vitskapar og så etter kvart tek ein til med finsorteringar, finkategoriseringar, på grunnlag av bestemte kjenneteikn og særtrekk, ved fysiske eller mentale ‘objekt’. På denne måten har ein fått grovkategoriar som litteratur, fysikk, musikk og lingvistikk, og underkatagoriar som faglitteratur, astrofysikk, atonal musikk og sosiolingvistikk. Og slik kan vi halda på vidare og vidare – eigenleg i det uendelege. Spørsmålet vert når det nyttig å stoppa med underkategorisering. Ja, stikkordet er nettopp nyttig og nytteeffekt. Kva nytteffekt har faglege underkategoriseringsnivåa?
Nyttekategorisering
Historisk er alle vitskaplege kategoriar underkategoriar til tidlegare tiders hovudkategoriar. Det er på denne måten dei moderne vitskapane har oppstått og utvikla seg. Nettopp fordi det var nyttig å dela dei eldre kategoriane opp i underkategoriar, og som har utvikla seg til nye og viktige sjølvstendige katagoriar. Kategoriar med stor nytteverdi har ei ljos framtid føre seg. Hovudkategorien lingvistikk hadde stor nytte av å bli delt opp i mange underkategoriar, og mange av desse har utvikla seg vidare til sjølvstendige svært levedyktige kategoriar. Sosiolingvistikken er til dømes ein vitskaplege kategori som har utvikla seg seg både frå lingvistikken og sosiologien, der det lingvistiske elementet primært har større tyngd enn det sosiale elementet. Sosiolingvistikk er difor ein lingvistisk disiplin og ikkje ein samfunnsvitskapleg eller sosiologisk disiplin, i motsetnad til språksosiologi som er ein sosiologisk disiplin.
Finst kategoriske kategoriar? Grenselandskategoriar og sekkekategoriar
Fleire av vitskapane høyrer ikkje berre til éin vitskapleg kategori, mange vitskapar kan høyra til to eller fleire forskjellige vitskaplege kategoriar. Og dei fleste kategoriar treng heller ikkje vera absolutt kategoriske.
Ofte kan det vera ei utfordring å isolera dei faktorane som avgjer kva for kategori eit konkret eller abstrakt objekt høyrer heime i. Alt etter kva for faktorar ein legg vekt på, kan ein vitskap koplast til éin eller fleire kategoriar. Vitskapar kan såleis vera mangefasetterte og liggja i eit grenseland mellom forskjellige vitskaplege kategoriar. Dei er altså grenselandkategoriar. Vitskapskategoriar kan også vera sekkekategoriar.
Basisfaktorar og kategoriseringar
Uansett må objekta i ein kategori eller det som objekta representerer, ha noko felles med andre kategoriar. Dei må ha ein eller fleire basisfaktorar felles for å høyra til same vitskapsområde. Basisfaktoren for litterære kategoriar er munnleg og skriftleg litteratur. Basisfaktoren for vitskapsgreina lingvistikk, språkvitskap, er skriftleg eller munnleg språk. Og så bortetter.
Lingvistikken kan me dessutan studera i eit kategoriseringsperspektiv som døme på ein sekkekategori som inneheld grovsorteringar, finsorteringar og grenselandsorteringar: allmenn lingvisrikk, generativ lingvistikk, psykolingvistikk, autonom lingvistikk, kulturell lingvistikk, preskriptiv lingvistikk, deskriptiv lingvistikk, psykolingvistikk og så bortetter. Og så må kvar av desse underkategoriane ha sine basisfaktorar, utan heng dei ikkje saman som vitskaplege kategoriar.
Ein kan spørja seg kor finmaska og detaljerte faglege kategoriseringar skal vera utan at dei misser funksjonen sin. For ein utanforståande kan fin- og detalj-kategoriseringar verka unyttige. Men det skal ein ikkje kimsa av. Slike kategoriseringar kan ha ein viktig nytteeffekt for særlege brukargrupper. Som døme tek eg med eit dialektkart over nordfrisiske talemål. Sjå kartet nedanfor som viser talemålssituasjonen på byrjinga av 1900-talet. Grovsorteringa gjøres vanligvis i dei to kategoriane fastlandsnordfrisisk (nr. 4-10) og øynordfrisisk (nr. 1-3). Fastlandsnordfrisisk vert delt i 7 underkategoriar, og den eine av dei igjen i 3 nye underkategoriar, og øyfrisisk i 3 underkategoriar, og den eine av dei igjen i 2 nye underkategoriar.
Slike fine underkategoriseringar er til stor nytte for tradisjonell dialektologi og for lokale og tradisjonelle indititetsrelasjonar.
Dialektkart over nordfrisiske talemål. GIF: Woadan, deutsche Übersetzung Termoderivative work: Murma174, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons.
Lingvistikk, sosioonomastikk og sosiolingvistikk
Onomastikken er til dømes ein underkategori under hovudkategorien lingvistikk. Og sosioonomastikken er atter ein underkategori under underkategorien onomastikken. Også sosiolingvistikken er ein underkategori under lingvistikken. Og sosionomastikken er dessutan påverka og inspirert av soiolingvistikken. Slik sett kunne ein på sett og vis seia at sosioonomastikken også er ein underkategori under sosiolingvistikken, av di onomastikken er ein underkategori under lingvistikken.
Kategoriseringsrelasjonar
I vår sosioonomastiske samanheng er slike kategoriseringsrelasjonelle tilhøve viktige, både for å plassera sosionomastikken i høve til sine språklege slektningar, og av di det er interessant å kunna isolera basisfaktoren som held saman sosioonomastikken. Sameleis som det er interessant å isolera basisfaktoren som held saman disiplinen sosiolingvistikk. Prinsipielt burde basisfaktoren som held saman sosioonomastikken vara identisk den basisfaktoren som held saman sosioolingvistikken. Basisfaktoren vert signalisert ved fyrstelekken sosio- i begge nemningar og bør prinsipielt representera same allmenne relasjonar.
Sosioonomastikk – ein utfordrande kategori
Som eg har nemnt tidlegare i blogginnlegg-samanheng, er sosioonomastikken ein utfordrande vitskapleg kategori. Nettopp av di dei prinsipielle kategoriseringstilhøva er så uklare, og av di dei praktiske tilnærmingane og studiane spriker i så mange forskjellige faglege og vitskaplege retningar. Med tanke på det praktiske aspektet ved disiplinen sosioonomastikk, sosioonomastikk i praksis, ser det ut for at sosioonomastikken kan vera i ferd med gå i retning av ei av-lingvistisk utvikling av disiplinen.
Det juridiske grundlag for navneforandringen var loven af 1. april 1905 – en lov jeg også tidligere har omtalt i denne blog. Her skriver jeg blandt andet om hvordan loven egentlig var en tillægslov til navneforandringsloven af 22. april 1904, og fortsætter: “I sin relative enkelthed gav [tillægs]loven mulighed for at man inden nytåret 1905-06 gratis kunne ansøge den lokale politimester om at tage et tilnavn som slægtsnavn hvis man i de sidste 20 år havde været alment kendt under tilnavnet og i øvrigt selv anerkendte sig det.”
1800-tallets navnelovgivning havde utilsigtet medført at den støt stigende befolkning bar de samme efternavne; især patronymer såsom Jensen, Nielsen, Hansen med videre toppede listerne.
Mens ånden i navnelovgivningen i 1904-05 egentlig var at skabe en større variation i slægtsnavnene i Danmark, medførte lovens bogstav at Clemen i 1905 kunne få lov til officielt at erstatte det mere ualmindelige slægtsnavn Havkrog med noget så almindeligt som Jensen. Navnet Jensen var op gennem det 19. og 20. århundrede det mest almindelige efternavn i Danmark. Først i 2016 overhaledes det af patronymet Nielsen.
Hvad hed Clemen sådan rigtigt?
Man skal ikke beskæftige sig længe med slægtsforskning og anden personalhistorisk forskning før man opdager at en persons navn ikke gengives på samme måde på tværs af de historiske kilder. Eksemplet med Clemen viser til fulde hvad jeg mener.
Ved fødsels- og dåbsoptegnelsen fra 1836-37 i kontraministerialbogen (kirkebogen) fra Nordby Sogn, skrives hans navn Clemmen Jørgen Haukrog. Samme staveform går igen ved hans konfirmation i 1851. I 1865, hvor han blev gift i Besser Kirke, staves hans navn Clemmen Jørgen Havkrog, altså med -v- i stedet for -u- i slægtsnavnet Havkrog. Så langt vidner kirkebøgerne kun om en lille stavevariation i slægtsnavnet. Folketællingerne (FT) derimod vidner om en større variation, her opsat i kronologisk rækkefølge:
Allerede i 1840 hvor Clemen er fire år gammel, optegnes han altså med efternavnet Jensen og ikke Havkrog; faktisk optegnes han i eksemplerne ovenfor kun med navnet Haukrog i 1845 og 1850. Bemærk her at Clemen altså først i 1905 officielt tog navneforandring fra Havkrog til Jensen som ellers står anført som hans efternavn gennem hele anden halvdel af 1800-tallet og i 1901.
Det er værd at fremhæve at Clemen på et tidspunkt inden for årene 1850-1855 flyttede hjemmefra, og derfor har han i folketællingerne fra og med 1855 sandsynligvis selv meddelt sit navn da folketællingen fandt sted. Ved folketællingerne 1840, 1845 og 1850 var Clemen hjemmeboende, og det har i praksis nok været forældrene, sikkert Clemens far og husstandens overhoved, der meddelte hvad familiens medlemmer hed.
Uanset hvordan navnene helt lavpraktisk blev optegnet i folketællingerne, blev Clemen i de fleste tilfælde opført med det Jensen han, jævnfør navneforandringen i 1905, selv opfattede som sit efternavn.
Clemen var jo ‘søn af Jens’
Efternavnet Havkrog var for Clemen sandsynligvis bare et navn han var blevet tillagt ved dåben. Clemens storebror fik allerede det særlige slægtsnavn da han i Nordby Sogn døbtes Morten Jørgen Haukrog i 1829, så da Clemen døbtes i 1837, fik han samme slægtsnavn. Således er brødrenes slægtsnavn Havkrog måske snarere et produkt af præstens forsøg på at leve op til ånden i dåbsforordningen i 1828 om at tillægge nyfødte børn faste slægtsnavne, noget som netop præsten i Nordby Sogn på Samsø fremhæves for at gøre, jævnfør side 65 og 118 i værket Dansk Navneskik fra 1899.
Men Havkrog har som slægtsnavn sikkert været fremmed for Clemen. Hans far hed Jens Clemmensen, stedvis benævnt Jens Rysser, og Clemens mor hed Ane Jørgensdatter. Når Clemen kaldte sig Jensen, er det altså et primærpatronym, det vil sige fars fornavn Jens efterfulgt at -(s)en ‘søn’. Clemen konstaterede altså at han var ‘søn af Jens’. Man kan altså formode at navnet Jensen har været en langt mere personlig og identitetsbærende konstatering for Clemen end det for ham upersonlige Havkrog.
