Scratch the Dog Jokes

It’s a dog’s life, but after 1,000 years the people of this village in western China have had enough.

Back in the 10th century, legend has it, Emperor Shi Jingtang was angry that their ancestors had the temerity to share part of his name. Apparently a clan member also delivered some now forgotten slight to the mighty ruler.

In retaliation, he forced them to change their surname from Jing, which means “respect,” to Gou, which means “humble” but has the same pronunciation as “dog.” For the next millennium, thousands of Gous were forced to endure insults, jokes and general canine confusion.

Last month, 261 villagers persuaded the government to restore the Jing name. When the paperwork came through, there were fireworks, congratulatory toasts and backslapping.

“We’re so happy,” said Jing Baishan, 58, an infectious-disease specialist who urged his neighbors to apply for the name change. “It feels like a thousand-year curse has been lifted, restoring our honor.”

Getting the name change in the current Chinese astrological year has been a bonus.

“What could be better than losing our dog name in the Year of the Dog?” said Jing Junfu, the local Communist Party secretary.

Many here view the centuries of humiliation as emblematic of China’s long feudal history, when ordinary people suffered under the boot of the mighty, enduring collective punishment for the deeds of a single clan member.

Over the years, the Gous met with countless slurs for having a name linked to an animal that hasn’t had the cute-family-member status it enjoys in the West. Although the dog’s reputation in China is improving as the country develops a larger urban middle class, it typically has been valued mainly for herding, food and guard duty (while being seen as dirty and willing to eat anything).

Teacher Jing Yan, 32, recalled traveling as a child to Xian, several hours from the Shaanxi province village, and having a stranger ask what her family name was. “Gou,” she said. “How could such a cute little girl be a dog?” the stranger responded.

Ren Caiyuan, whose sister married into the Gou clan, said she was often too embarrassed to introduce her scientist brother-in-law to people. “What could I say, ‘Oh, here’s Dr. Dog’?”

Jing Chuangshi, 61, reflected on the generations of Gous he sent into the world during his 38-year career as a primary school teacher. He said he would explain how the whimsy of an ancient emperor had made the clan the butt of so many jokes. And he’d advise them to cultivate an inner strength to weather the inevitable ribbing.

Most Gous say they learned over the years to feign amusement.

“They call me ‘Little Dog’ and think it’s hilarious,” said farmer Jing Yamin, 18, referring to the use of “xiao” in front of someone’s surname, generally a term of endearment. “All you can do is laugh. But it always bothers you a bit inside.”

Some altered their behavior in small ways. Few Gous had pet dogs, which would only invite more abuse. Jing Junshun, 52, a farmer, takes solace in his location. “I rarely leave the village,” he said, as it’s a relative oasis given that most of the 1,600 people share the same fate.

The power of puppy love notwithstanding, some young Gous reportedly have lost girlfriends after revealing their surname. But Ren Caixia, Jing Baishan’s wife, said marrying into a family with such an unusual name didn’t bother her.

“She’s not telling the truth,” her husband countered with a laugh.

Over the centuries, some Gous rose above the humiliation. During the Ming Dynasty, Gou Shi married China’s ruler and became known as “Empress Dog.” She reportedly was buried with a cloth listing her accomplishments in bronze lettering, a great honor.

Jing Baishan said he had wanted to change his name ever since receiving his first childhood insult, but he couldn’t obtain the historical documentation required by the government. Unlike in the United States, where changing a name is relatively easy, the hurdles are high under the Chinese system, which evolved more for the convenience of bureaucrats than of commoners.

Then one day last year, Jing Baishan read in a newspaper that several Gous in neighboring Henan province had successfully made the switch. Inspired, he contacted his nephew, party secretary Jing Junfu, and suggested that the whole village follow suit.

Last September, they organized a clan meeting attended by five generations of Gous. Most jumped at the chance to change the name. The clan collected newspaper clippings and other evidence and petitioned the local police bureau, which is responsible for name registration issues, and individual petitions were filed for villagers ranging in age from 1 to 82.

The fact that other communities of Gous were doing the same thing nationwide helped persuade authorities. Although exact numbers are difficult to pin down, there had been well over 10,000 Gous in China.

Police dispatched investigators and gave the OK a month later. Jing Baishan is now helping clan members in neighboring Shanyang county with their applications. The only Gous who opted to remain Gous typically were women already married into other families or senior citizens daunted by the paperwork.

Villagers have been too busy with their individual applications to think much about changing the name of their neighborhood, Goujiacun, which means “Dog Family Village.” But some say that will be next.

Newfound pride may also inspire the clan to restore its shrine. “Respect Your Ancestors Hall,” reads a small red sign over the door of a building at the end of a winding dirt path marked by broken windows and knee-high weeds. During the 1966-76 Cultural Revolution, Mao Tse-tung’s Red Guards swept through the village and destroyed the shrine’s centuries-old friezes as part of the nationwide rampage against tradition.

Much of the family history has been lost, although one oral version has it that after the offending Jing angered the lofty leader so many centuries back, he was given a choice: Change your name or see the entire clan put to death.

Others say it might not have been that dramatic. Merely possessing the same name as a new emperor was considered disrespectful, even illegal, in those days. In a culture that believed that names, like numbers, affected one’s fate, it was thought that commoners might dilute the emperor’s power and heavenly mandate.

In one example during the Ming Dynasty reign of Zhu Houzhao, all of China was forbidden to raise or eat pigs because “Zhu” is a homophone for “pig.”

Once a name was recorded by feudal clerks, there was little chance of ordinary people changing it back. Even after the Communist Party took power in 1949, it would be decades before that idea was even entertained. Even today, it requires a very good reason in a society where ID cards and residency permits are closely monitored.

As the reborn Jings celebrate, some traditionalists find the whole thing a bit unsavory.

“Soon the Langs and Zhus will be clamoring to change their names as well,” said Qi Shoucheng, a folk customs scholar in Liaoning province, citing two common surnames. (Lang means “wolf.”) “I don’t think this is a good development.”

Jing Junfu, the village party secretary, disagrees. “This shows how people-oriented our government is,” he said. “And our children won’t have to suffer such indignity.”

Jing Baishan proudly pores over a well-fingered family tree, pointing out some of his more accomplished ancestors. That there is this much history is thanks only to the bravery of Jing’s father, Jing Zhiren.

When Red Guards overran the village in the 1960s, he hid the inch-thick family tree under wheat husks in the attic, Jing said, pointing to the rafters of the family’s courtyard house. His father is 82 now, nearly deaf and bent over with a cane in each hand. He was the oldest in the area to change his name, and did it proudly, his son said.

As for Emperor Shi, who brought the dog curse down upon the clan, he may have had some accomplishments, but the people of Goujiacun certainly don’t recognize them.

“We hate him and think he’s horrible,” Jing Junfu said. “Generations of us had to suffer just to feed his ego. Those feudal emperors had no respect for the human rights of ordinary people.”

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mark.magnier@latimes.com

Yin Lijin in The Times’ Beijing Bureau contributed to this report.