Namesakes

Do you ever imagine yours?

I was rummaging around for my other Magen David today and I found a box of jewellery that belonged to my father's mother, Evelyn; the woman I was named after. In Jewish faith, it's customary to name children after deceased immediate family members, in order to memorialize them and honor their lives. My grandmother died too soon to see me born, surviving in time to watch my parents marry but not to meet their only child together 14 months later. In the jewellery box, I came across her Judaica, and a short gold chain that I've never held or worn before. I put it around my neck. I gathered it in my fingers and felt it against my chest, and thought about the only other person who ever wore it, a person I never met, but who I honor in this life with my own.

I thought about how she wore this chain, what it meant to her if anything at all, what clothes it might have sat atop, what scent surrounded it, what thoughts might have consumed her on the days she put it on, where she went with it, who she encountered and what kinds of conversations were had. There's so much I don't know. I don't know what my grandmother sounded like, I don't know what she looked like in person, only how an impression of her has been captured by still, often black and white photographs. Was she short or tall, or neither in particular? I don't know how her company would have warmed me. I've never tasted her food, or asked her for advice. I don't know what I'd make of her, or what she'd make of me.

And yet, there's a lot I do know. My grandmother is always described as a Balabusta, which is the Yiddish word to describe the ultimate homemaker; a woman who provides with grace but who also shan't be crossed. I find that the paintings people tell of matriarchs I never met in my family, including my grandmother, speak to me of an inherent feminism that was unscripted and unlabelled, but nevertheless demanded respect. I knew her husband, my grandfather Albert, who died when I was 7. Grandpa Albert was a funny and slight man, a hard-worker who made and sold fur coats, had a decent appetite, and was able to complete cryptic crosswords (ie, not the easy clues). To me, my grandmother looks to have been a larger figure; someone who enjoyed indulgence and whose daily tasks weren't compromised by self-serving interests. I can tell from the memories of my grandpa that Evelyn wore the trousers, and I imagine that she dominated conversation, and made all the plans, and ran their lives and their futures, and didn’t make a habit of negotiating the terms.

My grandmother was a survivor. She was riddled with cancers for years, and braved the onslaught of complications, with my Dad constantly at her side, taking care of her. I have never had reason to believe that she was anything but defiant, and never illustrated weakness despite the hardship of an ever-evolving, endless and fatal sickness. She died with so much ahead of her, but I believe that she was a person of such great impact that there was no time squandered when it came to her life's purpose and her impression on this world.

Often I wonder if she'd have liked me, if she'd have understood me, if we'd have got along. I wonder if my personality shares features with hers. If the way I live my life, in which I can't help but to try to settle for nothing less than what I want, no matter how out-of-reach, is something she instilled in me. I know from how my Dad conducts himself that she never accepted a first offer, that she didn't suffer fools gladly and that she wasn't going to waste her time on people who didn't respect, admire or cherish her. I know too that she probably wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but to those who loved her she was the most precious and revered. I can surmise that she wasn't a religious woman but deeply respected her faith and her traditions, and that she understood the precarious nature of being too proud in an antisemitic world, and of accepting the terrain in order to navigate it with smarts and sass. I suspect that my grandmother was the strongest person she knew.

That's what I imagine. I can only imagine. And as her chain adorns my chest, it serves as a reminder of the extraordinary person in my lineage whose name I carry as I strive to conduct myself in a manner befitting of it. I wonder if you think about your namesakes too, if you wanted to tell someone about your impressions today, if you’ve ever written them down or said it out loud.

Shabbat shalom, fam. Take it easy.