Having a female name has never bothered me.
I cannot recall ever being teased,
although some folks I meet are confused,
thinking I couldn’t be Leslie
and wondering in what way
I presume to represent her.

Leslie as a male name wasn’t popular
even as long ago, 1945, as I was born.
Leslie, according to babynames.com,
peaked in 1902 at slightly less
than 2 percent of all names given
to boys born in the U.S.A. that year.

However, “there was a period before 1945
when more boys were given the name.” I ride
the tail of an echo! “From 1946 on,
increasingly more girls than boys
were named Leslie. In 1997, girls named
Leslie outnumbered boys by 18 times.”

I get lots of junk mail addressed
to Ms. Leslie Gottesman,
and my wife and I get commercial appeals
aimed at lesbian couples.

But I like the name Leslie. As a young man
I was known as Leslie.
I like Leslie better than I like Les—
though Les is okay and is how everyone
knows me, except bureaucrats.

Some things do bother me.
No matter what they guess my full name might be
(Lester? Laszlo?) almost everyone
who meets me riffs in some way on
the proposition “less is more.”
It seems to be irresistible, often
even apologized for, and then delivered!
I never know what to say to this icebreaker

My last name translates from German
as “man of God,” which I always, humbly,
annotate that no doubt one or more
rabbinic father-son franchises, dynasties even,
existed in every eastern European shtetl
such as my grandparents fled
to the U.S.A. from. But I think that more likely
flourished hard-core layabouts
supported and tended by wives and daughters
while they studied the Talmud, daydreamed,
and maybe drank. I’m sure
every shtetl had several of these,
stoners of their time and targets
of the sarcasm “god’s man.”

But my pettest peeve is my own
unsuppressable reaction
to the homonyms of Les and Leslie.
Whether it’s a meeting around a table
or an outdoor rally of thousands,
if the holder of the floor concludes
her remarks with “Lastly…”—I snap
to attention as though it’s me
who’s been directly addressed.

I have met another Les Gottesman,
Lester Gottesman, a doctor I saw
when I was taken ill in New York one time.
An affable, Irish-looking red-haired man,
he stared at pages in a folder on his desk
for a long time and shook his head.

“I’m not used to seeing my name
on that part of the chart,” he said.

by Les Gottesman
San Francisco, CA

Polly
Not short for anything
Just Polly

I’m looking at myself, staring right into my eyes, repeating my name over and over and over until I can’t stop giggling.  Maybe I am seven or eight.  I didn’t know any other Pollys.  They were either British actors or unhappy macaws from Costa Rica.  There.  They were either old birds or birds.

My paternal great grandmother was Pearl.  And as far as the Jewish faith goes, you name your kid after a beloved ancestor; if they are still living you cannot use the same name. I never met Pearl but her portrait at Gramma Harriet’s Beverly Hills apartment was lovely under stucco ceilings overlooking Beverly Blvd.  In an oval mahogany frame, milky white and graphite grey, her eyes looked back at mine.  Same eyes.  Polish, whatever that may mean.  A few times while watching the movies of Krystof Kieslowski, I noticed the same eyes in an actor who reminds me of my father, who reminds me of Roman Polanski.  Our last name was Sidkovedsky.  Oh, the Jewish “sky”, not “ski.”  Never liked skiing anyway.  That name was changed at Ellis Island.  The man in front of our ancestors was Hungarian.  Geller was shorter than Sidkovedsky.  I prefer the latter.  And still despise boats, Ellis Island, the harbor in New York.  Harriet told me that they had to stay at Ellis Island for one month when they arrived from Warsaw.  Like a prisoner, while everyone was checked for lice and anything contagious.  She remembered a teenage Jewish girl with long red hair whose head had to be shaved.  She jumped into the harbor.  Such a long trip.

Polly.  Makes me forget half of my Polish ancestry anyway. But growing up in Roma, it became Polli- you know, “chickens.”  Exactly.  Bird by bird.

by Polly Geller
Los Angeles, CA

Loretta Gail Morris was born in 1957, two months premature and small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. She was carried in a cardboard shoebox and slept soundly in a dresser drawer. I imagine day and night passed in irregular hours as the ceiling lamp sun and tan papered walls opened and shut periodically above her peach-sized head. Tiny fingers reached out, curled and reflexively retracted to avoid being trapped in the sliver between light and dark.

How large her parents must have seemed, a Mount Rushmore of towering new faces, their liquor breath as familiar as her mother’s skin. How loud they must have sounded, their familiar voices no longer muffled by the womb, and then muffled again when the drawer was shut. I wonder if the dark corners and wood smell calmed her, or if she waited in infant terror for them to return.

Loretta Gail’s mother and father raised her in rural West Virginia until she was removed from their home in the early 1960’s.

Loretta Gail McGlothlin became the least-valued new sibling in a family already containing two natural sisters, Patsy and Peggy. I imagine that as the house where she became fiercely religious, a Pentecostal Southern Baptist. She developed a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. In one hand she held Him like an encyclopedia to explain all that had come before and in the other He was a shield she wielded to protect her against all that was to come.

Mama became Loretta Gail Shelton when she married in 1977 when she was 20, my father 22. They met in Virginia at a church group at which my father was the only man in the entire room with blonde hair and blue eyes. They courted for some time with frequent interruptions of military service until finally, my father asked Mama to marry him. Later he informed her that he had been prepared should she have said no. A date with a redheaded woman was broken by Mama’s affirmative response.

We three children will be born at the dawn of the Reagan era to young, southern military parents. Mama will begin making babies when she is just a baby herself, and will be broken into a grown up world through her responses to her children’s lives.

Her favorite name to be called by her children will be Mama. We won’t use it. Instead I will call her Mom. As I grow older she will become Ma, which she hates because she thinks it is vulgar and disrespectful. When I get particularly feisty I will call her Mother. This is far too formal for her taste and rings patronizingly like the use of a child’s full name when they have committed a crime. I will call her Ma long after I leave home until finally, without warning and without trying, I will begin to call her Mama. By then it is too late. She will be suspicious of me, sensing that I am ready to let her go. In 2007, the summer before Mama turns 50, I will.

by Dene Shelton
San Francisco, CA

Kids say, “Hey Craphouse”
I’d respond, “That’s juvenile”
“But that’s who we are”

by Albert Krathaus
San Francisco, CA

In Pulp Fiction, Bruce Willis’ character tells his French love interest: “I’m American, honey. Our names don’t mean shit.” I totally disagree. So does the writer; Butch is a boxer, which makes the line hilarious.

My first name is Lisa, middle name Jan. I prefer my initials and have since approximately 1996. No, I’m not transgendered. No, I don’t have anything against my parents. At this point, I’ve gone by L.J. for so long that some people don’t know what my full name is. Others resent me for not using it on a day-to-day basis.

My parents, like most Jews, named me after beloved deceased relatives. My dad wanted to name me Jan after his cousin; Jan died at the age of 11 because she “had a hole in her heart” and besides this sad fact, she was rarely mentioned again. My dad wanted her name and her spirit to be continued. Suspicious family members considered this bad luck, so Jan became my second name. Lisa is for my Hebrew name Leah, after my great-grandmother, a small, tough woman who was nicknamed “The General” by her son-in-law, and possibly (shanda!) of some Italian descent. Her daughter, my grandmother, called me Leah-lah. Leah means weary. It also means ruler or mistress in Assyrian. Leah was a matriach for the 12 tribes of Israel. She had “tender eyes” and cried a lot, probably because she was a prophet. Maybe she was simply weary from having seven of Jacob’s kids. All sons, no less! People have asked me why Jews don’t simply give their kids the actual Hebrew names instead of Americanizing them; assimilation, I guess. I was this close to being Lena, or Lori, Lissette.

So, why L.J., after all this? After I graduated from college, I made an autobiographical 16mm film that was screened at NYU, on Manhattan Cable, and in the living rooms of my family and friends. Somewhere during the creative process that began as a music video concept and ended with my submitting the piece to festivals, I changed my name. Or rather, I reverted. My dad has always called me Lisa Janny and referred to me as L.J. when I was a very small kid. I associate the nickname with buoyancy and positive memories. When I sent the film out, I used my nickname to represent the part of me that is unfettered and creative. L.J. pursued what she wanted to without worrying about the consequences. After I moved on to new projects and jobs and relationships, I wanted to hold on to that essence.

What’s interesting, though, are the challenges that using a nickname presents. There are many people who will always call me Lisa and think L.J. is ridiculous, weird, or masculine. One ex-boyfriend says “L.J.” sounds like a truck driver. Another friend says it’s too southern for a girl from Brooklyn. (Although on Avenue X it made a hell of a lot of sense.) Plus, I’m not going to call my doctor and make an appointment for L.J. Not to mention I certainly don’t want to be called L.J. in bed. But now, Lisa sounds harsh to me. Incomplete, even.

Plus, nicknames are cool, let’s face it. I’ve worked in offices where there are 5 Lisas, but only one L.J. And, as crass as it sounds, in the competitive, narcissistic society we live in, having a brand for yourself is important. Our names represent us first and foremost, before any of our qualities can be assessed.

What has emerged is a tiered system. Naturally, my mom calls me Lisa. I tolerate certain old friends calling me Lisa and I don’t blame them; that was how I referred to myself when we met. With new friends I am L.J. but I always tell them what the initials reference. At work I always use my initials, which often requires support from Human Resources. I like close friends and men with whom I am or want to be romantically involved to call me Lisa Jan. It feels special and endearing. And of course, to my dad, I’ll always be Lisa Janny. (Or Munchkin Lady, or in honor of my long-gone pacifier, Nippis Pippis Van Flippis.)

Using my nickname makes me feel good about myself and differentiates me. But maybe more than anything, L.J. keeps my full name, and the meanings behind it, intimate.

by L.J. Fogel
Los Angeles, CA

How can a person who is an Only Child - me - wind up in such a mess and at such a tender age, too?

Many years ago, after twelve years of marriage and a fitful, but singular pregnancy, my mother had me. She was ready with two boys’ and two girls’ names, picked out so she’d be ready to fill out the resultant hospital forms when she was called upon to do so.

But here’s the dicey part: The woman who was to become my godmother (and my mother’s best friend) was at the hospital keeping my father company while my mother was upstairs giving birth to me. She, herself, had a four year old boy, and she desperately wanted another child, hopefully a little girl, but it hadn’t happened. Indeed, it never did. My soon-to-be godmother liked the name “Susan.” In fact, she LOVED the name Susan. Somehow, in the melee that was the day I was born, the decision about my name came down to her because everybody else was either too busy elsewhere or so excited at my arrival. She told the nurse in charge of such things that she “thought” my mother wanted to name me Susan.

And so it was. For all of my first five years, I was called Karen, the name my mother chose. However, my birth certificate said I was officially Susan. It wasn’t until I got to kindergarten and my legal docs had to be produced that this became an issue. My mother, always one not to get too excited about such technicalities, never bothered to change it. Now, she couldn’t understand why the school was being so hard-assed about a simple thing like a mix-up with a name, for heaven’s sake. That Susan could have been Karen’s sister (and a different person altogether) made no sense to her because SHE knew who I was.

Of all people, she should have known better. When my mother was born, many years ago and when most normal births took place at home, the doctor and everyone else in the family in the house that day - and probably lots of neighbors and friends, too - got drunk shortly after my mother’s arrival on the planet. You see, she was the first female born in a family that already had six boys. My poor maternal grandmother had no girl’s name chosen. She just assumed she’d have another boy, and she had Anthony picked out. My mother became Anthony.

It wasn’t until years later, as an adult, when she had to go to the office where such records are kept that she discovered there was indeed two Anthonys. ( My mother has a younger brother named - you guessed it - Anthony.) She immediately knew what had happened because Anthony Number 1 was born on her birthday and Anthony Number 2 was born on her younger brother’s date of birth. Just as an aside, in what seems to be a crazy family tradition, and to make matters even more complicated, he was never called by his given name. He was called Boze, which is another story for another time. If somebody said something to me about my Uncle Anthony or worse, my Uncle Tony, I didn’t know who they meant. Uncle Boze, yes - Uncle Tony, no.

Anyway, I still have that document of long ago that says I was a Susan. I also have a document that says I’m now a corrected Karen. I would have made a happy schizophrenic.

by Karen Segboer
Warwick, NY

My name is Liz and my middle name is Bacon. Yes, Bacon. No, I’m not kidding. The first day of preschool I was so excited that I told my classmates my middle name. “Bacon and eggs! Bacon and eggs!” they sang. It would not be until I received my driver’s license at ago 16, would the fact of my middle name surface again. And only because showing off my driver’s license, a prized commodity, would reveal the name. I never asked my Mom why my middle name was Bacon. I just eventually came to know it. Bacon was my Mom’s maiden name. As I would come to explain, this was not a name my parents choose for me, but a name I inherited.

by Liz Bacon Jones
Oakland, CA

The film premiere of Jane Eyre in West Hollywood starring Emily Rivens was to be the gold-plated medallion that defined her otherwise mediocre career.

When she stepped out from a black stretch Cadillac limo taking the breadbox hand of her body guard; when her red Hermes heel clicked on the pavement and she rose into the flooded photographic light with her limp and lucid Gaultier dress, her brown, tightly woven hair and her eyes sparkling with sobriety she sent a ripple of gasps followed by an echo of digital flash and the imitation click-n-whir tones of digital cameras.
Forever after that Thursday evening; in trivia, on game shows, or hair salon small talk, she was known as “that actress who wore the beard”. Or, more simply… The Beard.

Emily Rivens grinned in spite of the uncomfortable glue and crinkle of faux skin, a beard perfectly manicured and curiously attractive on her high cheeked and china bone skin. She smiled virgin white teeth and regally waved towards that inhale of documentarian breath which was exhaled in an onslaught of questions.
“Is divorce pending?” “Are the rumors true?” “What will happen to baby Ganymede?”
In fact, Baby Ganymede did follow in the arms of Ursula, Emily Rivens’ personal assistant and rumored cocaine addict, friends of Mary-Kate. His one and a half-year old cherubic face was alight with confusion and curiosity at the adults that paid him and his mother so much attention.

Rivens’ moment was a triumph, though personal in every way. To the dismay of her distributor and Jane Eyre’s producers, her stunt did nothing for critic satisfaction or audience turn-out. What her guerilla performance did initiate was a crack in the nauseous veneer of new millennia celebrity. Once it was established that Rivens was neither drunk nor mentally fatigued; that all her faculties were in as much of a row as ducks crossing the street to Boston Common; that her publicist was taking a backseat neither denying nor confirming that she assisted in this dramatic metaphorical press release; the weekly glossy magazine purchasers revolted and demanded more from their starlets. The bar had been raised. They wanted more guts. Suddenly, any boring, dull and playing-it-safe celebrity went under with the red carpet tide while those with the personalities of fireworks, cheetahs, and jalapeños took center stage. But in any uprising there has to be a sacrifice.

Emily Rivens was married to one of the most powerful men in Hollywood and two year consecutive winner of Sexiest Man Alive as told by Vogue 2007 and 2008. Every year, for the past ten, he starred in an action/sci-fi/thriller flick that internationally grossed more millions than China had people. He consistently brought home the goal of blockbuster. Some would say it had to do with his talents as an actor, his ability to bring human life and morality to roles intended to be gritty, action oriented, and militaristic. Others would say that his ability to adapt and then to quickly be forgotten saves him from viewer fatigue, that every year he’s like a new puppy because we inevitably forget that he already came around once before. Either way, he was huge. And his name was Winston Graham.

Strangely enough, as years weather The Beard’s story into legend, when people discuss her they often fail to know the reason for her facial growth. Little did Emily realize that her gesture would blind too well, get her point across too clearly, that her ripple would overshadow even the circumstances they were representing. The persona of Winston Graham made it out of the foxhole alive and well, reputation intact only after fifty years of gestation. Two years post-The Beard his career tried to hurdle the mass deception with a Christmas feel-good, track coach teaches the handicapped high school flick but fell flat with a face full of white marking chalk.

by David Morini
Hokkaido, Japan

The Beard (Part 2)
The Beard (Part 3)