(Another memoir piece)
When we moved from our tan split-level in Long Island to our more refined house in New Jersey, with its dollhouse in the backyard, my mother thought it a scandal that its owner, a Jewish doctor named Katzen or Katz, had named his only daughter, Mary. I never learned the doctor’s name or his wife’s name, but I knew her name, Mary.
“Very peculiar for a Jew to name a daughter Mary,” my mother said.
Even at ten, I knew Mary was no name for Jewish girls. Marilyn or Marian, fine, but Mary, never.
My mother went on, her eyes shining, “They must have been very rich to name her Mary.”
The idea that our family who was by no means rich were moving into a rich man’s house was a big deal. My mother had grown up in the Bronx with, as she put it, “nothing.” And from our exchange, I gathered that rich Jews (whoever they were) got to name daughters forbidden names, even Mary. Although I never met Mary, I pictured her tall, dark-haired, pale, with soft brown eyes, everything I felt a true Mary should be.
Back then, there were a lot of rules that Jews followed about names. Girls couldn’t be Katherine, Angelica, Margaret, Christine, or Maria. Now Margaret is a strange case— yes, there is a Saint Margaret, but other saint’s names slipped through. There are two Saint Dorotheas, but Dorothy was a common Jewish name. There is Saint Lucy (Lucia of Syracuse, if you’re wondering), and Lucy was my mother’s name.
There’s a Saint Irene, and I know too many Jewish Irenes to count. So, sainthood doesn’t fully explain the lack of Jewish Margarets. Still, even now, if I meet a Margaret, I figure she’s not Jewish. (Boys had different naming rules — the two staples of the Christian faith, Peter and Paul, were and are popular names for Jewish boys.)
A few years ago, I contacted a psychic (a telephone psychic.) I was considering a novel involving a psychic cult and some research was in order. At first, the psychic seemed pretty, well, psychic. She knew my father’s name, got close with my grandmother’s. But after she’d hit the low hanging fruit (“there were secrets in your family”), she announced that a spirit was trying to contact me. (Apparently, when you get on the phone to the other side, the spirits all line up, they’re eager to chat.)
“There’s a Margaret who wants you,” she said.
“I don’t know any Margarets,” I said.
There was an uneasy silence.
“No one in your family?”
I’d mentioned to this psychic that most of my mother’s family had died in the death camps, so I’d given her a clue (not even a psychic one) that I was Jewish. But not being Jewish, she didn’t know the rule about Margaret.
“No Margarets,” I told her. “Tell her to find another family.”
When we moved from our tan split-level in Long Island to our more refined house in New Jersey, with its dollhouse in the backyard, my mother thought it a scandal that its owner, a Jewish doctor named Katzen or Katz, had named his only daughter, Mary. I never learned the doctor’s name or his wife’s name, but I knew her name, Mary.
“Very peculiar for a Jew to name a daughter Mary,” my mother said.
Even at ten, I knew Mary was no name for Jewish girls. Marilyn or Marian, fine, but Mary, never.
My mother went on, her eyes shining, “They must have been very rich to name her Mary.”
The idea that our family who was by no means rich were moving into a rich man’s house was a big deal. My mother had grown up in the Bronx with, as she put it, “nothing.” And from our exchange, I gathered that rich Jews (whoever they were) got to name daughters forbidden names, even Mary. Although I never met Mary, I pictured her tall, dark-haired, pale, with soft brown eyes, everything I felt a true Mary should be.
Back then, there were a lot of rules that Jews followed about names. Girls couldn’t be Katherine, Angelica, Margaret, Christine, or Maria. Now Margaret is a strange case— yes, there is a Saint Margaret, but other saint’s names slipped through. There are two Saint Dorotheas, but Dorothy was a common Jewish name. There is Saint Lucy (Lucia of Syracuse, if you’re wondering), and Lucy was my mother’s name.
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| Lucia of Syracuse |
A few years ago, I contacted a psychic (a telephone psychic.) I was considering a novel involving a psychic cult and some research was in order. At first, the psychic seemed pretty, well, psychic. She knew my father’s name, got close with my grandmother’s. But after she’d hit the low hanging fruit (“there were secrets in your family”), she announced that a spirit was trying to contact me. (Apparently, when you get on the phone to the other side, the spirits all line up, they’re eager to chat.)
“There’s a Margaret who wants you,” she said.
“I don’t know any Margarets,” I said.
There was an uneasy silence.
“No one in your family?”
I’d mentioned to this psychic that most of my mother’s family had died in the death camps, so I’d given her a clue (not even a psychic one) that I was Jewish. But not being Jewish, she didn’t know the rule about Margaret.
“No Margarets,” I told her. “Tell her to find another family.”
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