What’s in a Name?

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My grandma’s name was Tom.

Yes, my grandmother’s name, as far as I knew until the age of six, was Tom. Tommy actually, Grandma Tommy. It was when my first grade teacher Mrs. Rivello expressed her skepticism about my grandmother’s masculine name that I finally learned the truth. When my teacher asked me who would be coming to our class Grandparents Day Celebration, I replied:

“Grandma Fanny, Grandpa Kenny and Grandma Tommy.”

“Grandma Tommy?” she asked.

“Yup,” I said matter-of-factly. “Grandma Tommy.”

“Are you sure her name is Tommy, Dayna?”

“Yes,” I said, confused as to why she would be asking such a question.

“Can you just check with mommy when you get home to make sure that is your grandma’s name?”

I nodded compliantly, thinking I had done something wrong.

Thinking back now, how dare she doubt the name of the Goldberg family matriarch. Yes, Tommy is primarily a male name but who was she to judge and question what we called family members. She should have questioned why my maternal great-grandmother Rose dubbed my mother’s mother with the unfortunate name Fanny, which I later learned was a synonym for ass, butt, bottom, tush, etc. Sorry to all you Fannys out there.

That afternoon my mother picked me up from the bus stop. As I skipped home from the bus, swinging my Muppet Show lunch box in one hand and holding my mother’s hand in the other, I told her how my teacher didn’t believe me that grandma’s name was Tommy.

“Well actually Dayna, it isn’t,” my mother replied.

I stopped skipping, let go of my mother’s hand and gave her my best “Whatchyou talkin’ ’bout Willis?” face.

“Her real name is Evelyn,” my mother informed me. “When she was younger she used to play sports with the boys and they started calling her a tomboy. Eventually everyone started to call her Tommy and it just stuck.”

What?! Evelyn?! That name did not seem fitting for my rough and tough Bronx-born grandmother who had the mouth of a truck driver. She was, would and will always be Tommy to me.

To continue the name confusion in my family, my father’s name is Phillip, but everyone in the family calls him Genie. When my Grandma Tommy named her first born, she explained how Phillip was a name she adored, but she despised the nickname Phil. She said if people started calling him Phil, she would call him by his middle name, Eugene. Eugene turned into Genie and that was that.

So to recap: Evelyn was called Tommy, Phillip was called Genie and Fanny was still called Fanny.

A few decades later, I was born. After my mother had the naming rights to my sister Heidi (who my brother renamed Heiny) and my brother Michael (who my father called either Michelle or “Wolfgang”, which we still really don’t understand…it’s not like my brother is really hairy or anything), my father got the right to name me. Lucky me.

It was 1977 and my father was a big fan of the hit television show “Charlie’s Angels“. He was especially hot for Jacqueline Smith, whose character was named Kelly. Therefore, my father decided my name was going to be Kelly. A nice Irish name for a nice Jewish girl. But my then 9-year-old sister had other plans.

My grandma Fanny’s neighbor had a baby a few months before I was born. They named her Dana Nicole. When my sister told my mom how much she liked the name, my mother agreed to it. My mom then came up with the ingenious idea to add the “y” to the “normal” spelling of Dana and it was set. I was going to be Dayna (with a Y) Nicole. My father was oblivious to this until my parents had to fill out my birth certificate.

“Hey,” my dad argued, hurt his 9-year-old daughter had more say in naming his new child. “I thought we agreed her name was going to be Kelly.”

A small argument ensued, exposing my virgin, newborn ears to what was to come in our household. It was my great aunt Mimi (whose real name was Minnie) who finally suggested to put ALL the names together. So I am Dayna Nicole Kelly, no hyphen between Nicole and Kelly.

I usually don’t mind my multiple middles, except when filling out forms. They (whomever they are) always leave just one blank for the middle initial. I find that so inconsiderate for those of us whose parents couldn’t decide what the hell to name us. As if I didn’t have enough to handle.

Having two middle names has become a conversation piece and has made me extremely interested in what people’s names are and what significance, if any, the name has. For example, in recent years, I have learned I am not alone. My friend Kandi also has two middle names AND two (now three, since she got married) last names!

In the Jewish religion, which is the one my family seems to follow extremely loosely (We call the evergreen tree we decorate with ornaments and lights every December our “Hanukkah bush”), it is tradition to name a child after the deceased. We honor our dead loved ones by using their initials to name our children. My sister Heidi was named after my mother’s father Herbert. (I also honored the grandfather I never met by naming all the fireflies I ever caught in my childhood summers, Herbie.) My brother is named for my father’s grandfather Max Jacob. I am named for my mother’s grandfather Phillip (not to be confused with my father Phillip/Genie).

Yea, I didn’t understand either. Phillip starts with P. Dayna starts with D. How am I named after him exactly? When I was old enough to understand all this naming stuff, I realized I had another name: my Hebrew name, which is Shoshana Yehuda. Apparently, this is the female version of my great-grandfather’s Hebrew name.

To continue this tradition, my sister wanted to honor my grandma Tommy by naming her first born after her. She wanted to use the E from Evelyn, even though nobody really called her that. My sister loved the name Elizabeth, but didn’t really like the nicknames: Liz, Lizzy, Beth, Betsy, Eliza, etc (Similar to Tommy not liking the nickname Phil). So she picked another really pretty name, Emily Elizabeth. The only problem with this was her last name is Emery. Emily Emery? Was she serious? In her delusional pregnant mind, there was not a problem. In the ultimate need to protect my unborn niece from complete ridicule, I had to talk my sister out of it. I had to stop her from creating even more problems for her daughter than she was bound to have just by being in our family.

“Remember how we used to make fun of Mrs. Jones, our social studies teacher?” I reasoned with her. “Joan Jones? Or mom and dad’s friend Rose Rose? Plus, do you want your daughter to have the same name as the owner of Clifford the big red dog? Do you really want to do that to her?”

“Yeah, but those are their married names. They chose to do that to themselves,” she said.

“Yes and when your daughter is old enough to make the decision to have such a ridiculous name, you can let her,” I pleaded. “But please, don’t do it for her!”

Luckily, on November 25, 2006, Leah Elizabeth, not Emily Elizabeth, was born.

Whew, close one.

My brother also decided to honor my grandmother, but in a more obvious and clear way. His son’s name is Thomas.

Having a plethora of names has its benefits. When I first submitted an article to a website and I was afraid it was a piece of crap, I gave myself a pen name: Nicole Kelly. That way, if it was really bad I wouldn’t have to claim it as my own. I could hide behind Nicole Kelly.

When I was a tween and attended a lot of my friend’s birthday parties at United Skates of America, our local roller skating establishment, I told all the cute boy from other schools that my name was Nicole, Nikki for short. My friend’s alter-ego was Samantha, Sammy for short. Neither of us were totally lying. I mean, Nicole was one of my middle names and Sammie was a nickname for Sampson, which was her last name. Plus, who were we really hurting as we skated around in our leg warmers and did the Hokey Pokey with the Skateosaurous, the big, purple dinosaur on skates.

Having a Y in my name and two middle names has made me who I am. If I were Dana instead of Dayna, I might have traveled an entirely different path; one where I played it safe without asking questions or stepping outside of the box. Being a little different, just by having an extra letter in my name and an extra middle name, I feel, I don’t know, special. At least it makes a decent story. And if it doesn’t….this was written by Nicole Kelly.

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