by that which we call a rose

I don't usually identify myself by my last name. Sometimes I do. Often, once my last name is given, I will get a look of recognition, and I can see the wheels turning in the head, and then I'll get asked if I am the daughter or granddaughter of so-and-so. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the person is correct. I have a well-known family.

My grandfather was the director of my Camp, back in the day. His nickname was an abbreviated form of our last name, and everybody addressed him as such. Even his wife, my grandmother, rarely used his legal name. My grandparents had four children, all of whom worked at Camp for many years. The Camp community, with which I still maintain close ties, is where I am most closely asociated with my relatives. Ironically, this setting is also where I developed a strong sense of individuality.

My father was my school principal from kindergarten until seventh grade. I didn't mind my last name then; it marked me as special and somewhat elevated. Plus, he had a special nickname there that was wholly unrelated to our family name. When he left, he worked briefly as the Dean of Education at the UJ. Then he moved to the BJE, where he works with school principals, music teachers, religious school teachers, early-education teachers, and day school teachers all over LA. Most of them love him, and tell me so when we meet. So do the people who know him from Camp, where he worked for many summers as a counselor and rosh, and then later as founder and director of the special needs program. For these adults, our shared last name is his identifying feature.

I have many different names of my own. I have separate nicknames from each parent. I have nicknames from high school. I have nicknames from college. Most of my Hebrew teachers and relatives have another name for me. I can tell immediately my association with someone, simply by the name they choose to call me. No one crosses categories, because they don't have permission into other parts of my life. Once someone tried to use a different nickname with me, my grandfather's nickname, and it felt absolutely wrong. It was someone else's name, not mine.

These past two years have been really difficult for me in the sense of gaining my idependence from my family. Living in the same city and working in the same field as my father means that I rarely encounter adults who don't know me as The Daughter Of. It's a big SUCK to be consistently reminded of how I grew up, which charactor traits may not be my own. I identify fully by my first name because it's all me.

Today Dr. Sheila told us that we have to go by last names when observing in schools. Granted, I am certain that none of the kids from East LA have ever heard of my father, and will not even begin to associate me with their memories of growing up at summer camp. Regardless, I'm worried about my OWN reaction when I hear them call out to me.