POST 27: "Please Don't Be Scared"
GRANDMA JO (JOSEPHINE) ON HER WEDDING DAY TO JOSEPH KUHN (GRANDPA JOE).
GRANDMA JO, 1960s
“Prayer is not asking. Prayer is putting oneself in the hands of God, at His disposition, and listening to His voice in the depth of our hearts.”
Mother Teresa
In those dark days, nearing my 40th year, not knowing what the future held I decided to change my last name. Name changing is a significant way to marka new identity in the Bible. God changed Abram's name to Abraham, Sarai's name became Sarah, and Jacob became known as Israel. Cephas became Peter, Saul became Paul - the two fundamental leaders in the early church.
I wanted a new identity. I started by changing my name.
My married last name was Ojeda. Well, I wasn’t an “Ojeda” any more. My birth name was “Smith.” It felt like a defeat to go back to Smith. I couldn’t explain it well to my surviving brothers – I didn’t want to break my bond with them – but the connection was different. I thought back to my grandma Jo, who chose my name because she loved the actress Moira Shearer in the movie, “The Red Shoes.” She insisted I be named after her. I have few memories of her. Big surprise there. I just felt safe and warm and loved around her. That goes far in my book. Later, in the Catholic Rite of Confirmation, I took her name, Josephine "Jo." So when it came to looking for new last names, I looked in the Big Family Bible for the family names. I saw grandma’s parents were immigrants from Ireland back in the 1890s. Their last names were spelled in two different ways: O’hearne was the original and then also Ahern. I came up with the idea then to combine the two. Ahearne.
At the time it seemed like a great idea. After signing hundreds of documents over the years, I realized I should have stuck with the simple spelling. Ahern. I forgot that basic lesson from my chaplaincy instructor: KISS (keep it simple, stupid).
I had the name, but I know nothing of the people who traveled from Ireland, gave birth to my grandmother and settled in southern Ohio. I know nothing of the stonemason great-grandfather who apparently died of tuberculosis. Or of the great-grandmother who quickly remarried, as was the custom in those days to support herself and her infant child. Nothing of the step-great-grandfather, except his last name was Salmom. Like the fish.
As a matter of fact, I do not know anything about my paternal or maternal grandparents, little of aunts and uncles. It was like everyone in my family took a vow of silence. Then vanished. The stories of the generations were not handed down, except for a crumb here or there.
Do we not know that stories do not go away, but become a part of inarticulate memory that drives us and gnaws at our souls? Generations of stories reside in our psyches. I realized that as an amnesiac, I am a descendant of a clan of amnesiacs.
Was it the booze? Were there other skeletons in the closet? Did anyone else not remember what I didn’t remember? I longed to know the story of my family. I didn't know their story but I knew I had a story and I didn't want it to disappear. I did not want to remain invisible any longer, even if it meant coughing up secrets.
However, that meant betraying the fundamental rule of a alcoholic/abusive family system: keep the secrets at all cost.
It would take fifteen more years before I could do this.
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/128334-prayer-is-not-asking-prayer-is-putting-oneself-in-the
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
Mother Teresa
In those dark days, nearing my 40th year, not knowing what the future held I decided to change my last name. Name changing is a significant way to marka new identity in the Bible. God changed Abram's name to Abraham, Sarai's name became Sarah, and Jacob became known as Israel. Cephas became Peter, Saul became Paul - the two fundamental leaders in the early church.
I wanted a new identity. I started by changing my name.
My married last name was Ojeda. Well, I wasn’t an “Ojeda” any more. My birth name was “Smith.” It felt like a defeat to go back to Smith. I couldn’t explain it well to my surviving brothers – I didn’t want to break my bond with them – but the connection was different. I thought back to my grandma Jo, who chose my name because she loved the actress Moira Shearer in the movie, “The Red Shoes.” She insisted I be named after her. I have few memories of her. Big surprise there. I just felt safe and warm and loved around her. That goes far in my book. Later, in the Catholic Rite of Confirmation, I took her name, Josephine "Jo." So when it came to looking for new last names, I looked in the Big Family Bible for the family names. I saw grandma’s parents were immigrants from Ireland back in the 1890s. Their last names were spelled in two different ways: O’hearne was the original and then also Ahern. I came up with the idea then to combine the two. Ahearne.
At the time it seemed like a great idea. After signing hundreds of documents over the years, I realized I should have stuck with the simple spelling. Ahern. I forgot that basic lesson from my chaplaincy instructor: KISS (keep it simple, stupid).
I had the name, but I know nothing of the people who traveled from Ireland, gave birth to my grandmother and settled in southern Ohio. I know nothing of the stonemason great-grandfather who apparently died of tuberculosis. Or of the great-grandmother who quickly remarried, as was the custom in those days to support herself and her infant child. Nothing of the step-great-grandfather, except his last name was Salmom. Like the fish.
As a matter of fact, I do not know anything about my paternal or maternal grandparents, little of aunts and uncles. It was like everyone in my family took a vow of silence. Then vanished. The stories of the generations were not handed down, except for a crumb here or there.
Do we not know that stories do not go away, but become a part of inarticulate memory that drives us and gnaws at our souls? Generations of stories reside in our psyches. I realized that as an amnesiac, I am a descendant of a clan of amnesiacs.
Was it the booze? Were there other skeletons in the closet? Did anyone else not remember what I didn’t remember? I longed to know the story of my family. I didn't know their story but I knew I had a story and I didn't want it to disappear. I did not want to remain invisible any longer, even if it meant coughing up secrets.
However, that meant betraying the fundamental rule of a alcoholic/abusive family system: keep the secrets at all cost.
It would take fifteen more years before I could do this.
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/128334-prayer-is-not-asking-prayer-is-putting-oneself-in-the
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
IRISH COAT OF ARMS