I’ve been asked to be a facilitator at an upcoming equity & multiculturalism workshop. Eric questioned what expertise I have in this area, something I’ve questioned of myself over the last two years. What can a middle aged, white girl from the San Fernando Valley bring to the table?
For one thing, I can bring my name – and the stories of the names around me.
I came into this world with not one, but two names. An English name and a Hebrew one. Growing up with mostly non-Jewish friends, my Hebrew name was something used only by my grandparents and my Rabbi. (To this day, I hear “Shayva Rivka” in my grandfather’s Eastern European accented voice.) It was a name chosen by my mother to honor the memories of people important to her – an Ashkenazi tradition that I continued with my own children. So why be ashamed? Growing up, I just wanted to be like everyone else. Eat the same foods, celebrate the same holidays, have sleepovers on the weekends. Having another name was just another reminder of how different I was and as a kid (and even as an adult) that was just not cool. It took intensive cultural training for me to explore this and convince myself that being different was what made me… me – and that was certainly cool. My Hebrew name and my mother’s wedding ring are the two strongest ties I have to her now that she is gone.
My mother gave the same gifts to my children, selecting each of their Hebrew names even though she knew it was highly unlikely that they would ever use them. Oddly enough, the most unexpected of the boys does. My mother named Anthony, Chaim Velvel – Life Wolf. A name that he has embraced.
Ironically, Anthony’s name is the only one we did not choose. It came with him – at 3 already a big part of his identity. It was a part of him and the idea of taking that away never crossed our minds. We added his middle name in a nod to my father. A reminder that some things are within our control and somethings are not, and that’s (generally) ok.
28 years ago I gave up my father’s name in lieu of Eric’s. At the time it allowed me strip away years of personal heartache as well as the cultural stereotypes that come from having a “Jewish last name” (remember I was pretty intent on assimilation). I now carry a surname that I have little connection to. A name I often have to correct the pronunciation and spelling of. I am not German like Eric’s ancestors and when asked “what Herchenroeder is” (an odd question in the first place) my first reaction is to be snarky and answer “my husband’s last name”. My connection to the name is in the context of Eric and the boys – TOGETHER we make H5. I have been a Herchenroeder longer than I was a Weisman, and it was only recently that I began using my maiden name publicly in an attempt to find childhood friends (thanks Facebook). After nearly 3 decades, my connection to Weisman is tenuous at best – even my 1st cousins spell it differently, yet another name story.
Having a name that is constantly mispronounced has made me conscious of my spelling and pronunciations of others’. So much so, that I recently took a Spanish course specifically to help me with pronouncing Latino names. I still often butcher them, but I’m trying.
The most amusing (and annoying) part is when a stranger says, “Herchenroeder? Do you know…?” Umm how many of us locally do you really think there are that I wouldn’t be related to all of them? Seriously? It’s not Smith or Brown or… It’s fricking Herchenroeder! And while we’re on the topic complete and total stranger, yes it IS long and no, my children did not struggle to learn how to say or spell it.
When I buried my mother, I made the decision to engrave all of her names on her headstone; her Hebrew name, the name everyone knew her by (Bubbe Malka), and her English name including all of the last names she carried through her life. Her ties to her childhood, to my father, and to Dan who she cared for in their final years. Each of these names was a piece of her, and made her who she was – both to herself and to the world.
My grandfather’s last name was Kohen, with a K. His children were all Cohens, with a C. I always assumed he changed his name to avoid the law or a jilted girlfriend, he was a bit of a sketchy character. When I found his naturalization certificate from 1926 I was shocked to see his name spelled with a K. Another name story, this one likely lost forever.
When I started at Chaffey, my boss asked me what I preferred to be called. Sheri. “Sorry, that name is already taken by 3 others. Go by Sheryl – you’ll be the only one.” So, for the first time in my life someone other than my mother, a school official, or the IRS was calling me Sheryl. It took years for me to realize they were talking to or about me. Now, once again thanks to Facebook, Sheryl is how most people know me.
I have a friend whose daughter is transgender. As part of her transition, she has changed her name and that got me thinking about how strange the whole idea of naming a child is. Names are determined by people who have never met you, often long before your entry into the universe. That name is yours for all your days – and beyond. How strange is that? Like something out of Lois Lowery’s The Giver. When people refuse to use a name that a person has chosen for themselves, what are we saying to them? Your randomly assigned designation is more important than how you see yourself, who you have developed into.
I’m not perfect by any means. My oldest friend has selected a name for herself. I call her Omi, because to me that is who she is. When I introduce her to others I call her by her chosen name, or at least I try to. I need to be better about that. I need to honor what she wants and I need to be more diligent about it. Because, when you love someone that’s what you do.
You can judge what circle someone knows me from based on what they call me. So many names… Sheryl, Sheri, Sher, SherBear, Mrs. H, Mom, Mama. I even have a friend that calls me Herchenroeder – easily the oddest choice. It’s pretty comical when the circles intersect and people are genuinely confused. I get it. I get confused, too.
So who am I? As I near the mid century mark, I’m still figuring that out. Whether that’s in the context of birth name, cultural name, maiden name, married name, or nickname – each has helped to build the woman I am and each is important in its own way.
Right now, THAT is what I bring to the conversation. No longer assimilating – celebrating ALL that I am and each name THAT represents. Hopefully my story inspires my colleagues (and now my followers) to be understanding and empathetic, to address people in their chosen way, to be respectful of cultural differences. To never, ever, rename someone simply out of their own convenience.
And yes, you can still call me Sheryl.
Until Harriet.
T
Sparkling Llama 