The Name Game

My cousin just wrote to me to tell me how he was named.  Not by his father, not by his mother, but by our grandfather, who went to the hospital to fill out his birth certificate before either parent could.  That’s how my cousin ended up as a III.

I had to laugh at the story because it was so typical of my grandfather.  His father had come over from Germany, and that’s just how things were done.  The patriarch ruled.  To honor his father, my grandfather named his first born son Robert.  But his second son, who became Augustus John II, he named after himself, so why not name the son’s son Augustus John III.  What could be better than that?  Why should anyone object?  And if they did, what would it matter?  His three sons worked for him.  He ruled.

Let’s have a few moments of sympathy for the distaff side of the family, those poor daughters-in-law.  My grandfather built two houses side by side on what was then the outskirts of Oneida.  The houses were laid out exactly the same, and his two younger sons had to live in them, whether they wanted to or not.  Were the wives happy?  Well, let’s just say one family moved away as soon as possible after my grandfather died.

The oldest son made his escape to Hamilton, but he still carried on the tradition of naming his son Robert.  And he still ran a gas station, as did my grandfather.

My mother made the great escape from Oneida, when she went to the University of Michigan, where she eloped with my father.  Incredibly, they both came from upstate New York, as my father was from Utica.  It was not a marriage given the seal of approval from either side.  My father’s mother Minnie offered my mother a set of sheets if she would let my father go.  My mother’s father tolerated my father, but I can’t ever say it was a close relationship.  However, I have letters to my father from my mother’s mother that were pleasant and loving.  But isn’t that a woman’s job, to heal any riff?

When my parents had their first born, they named him Joseph Werner.  Joseph was after my grandfather Kushner; Werner was after my father’s Ph.D. advisor Werner Bachmann.  I assume my parents did this to appease my father’s family.  Well, what a kerfuffle this caused because, according to Jewish tradition, you’re not supposed to name a child after someone still alive.  My grandfather Joseph was still alive.  So after he died, my Uncle Morris named his son Joseph.  Two Joseph Kushners, believe me, were one too many for my mother, who was incensed.

I, the second born, was named Carolyn Ann, the Carolyn after my grandmother Caroline, called Carrie.  The year I was born was a big year for everything Carol.  In my elementary school class there were four Carols and there was I.  I have gone through life being called everything except Carolyn.  It’s Carol, or Carol Ann, or Caroline.  But I happen to like Carolyn.  One time a friend asked me what my Hebrew name was.  I told her, “It’s Carolyn.”

My sister’s name is Ellen, which is my mother’s middle name.  My brother totally escaped the hereditary naming with Michael, middle name James after a very good friend of the family.

My own children:  I went Biblical.  It was Benjamin Joseph for the first born because I loved the story of Jacob and Rachel.  Also, I wanted to call Benjamin Benjy.  That ended quickly when he decided Ben was enough. Though in Israel he’s still called Benny.

I named my daughter Judith Joy. Joy was after my husband’s mother, whose name was Masuda, which meant Joy.  Judith?  I love the name and I have so many friends from childhood on called Judy.  Judith does not love her name and it is used only legally.  She goes by Judy.

My youngest?  Well, when we lived in Israel, I put a note in the wall, saying, if I had a son I’d name him Jonathan Amichai.  But when the time came I named him Jonathan David.  Does he resent the name?  The Jonathan he can deal with but he resents the David.  Why?  Because he’s traveled and worked in the Middle East, and he can pass for an Arab until they see the two names together.  So sorry!

Names.  Well, you can’t please everybody.  Or anybody in too many cases.  Still, they don’t define us.  Or do they?