If a Tree can Grow in Brooklyn,
a Bush can Grow in the Bronx
By Pearl Hoffman
My maternal grandparents immigrated from Russia to America in 1893. When my grandfather was interviewed at Ellis Island, the first question he was asked was his name.
Abraham Muggerman he replied, but when he was asked to spell his surname, he was so nervous he had difficulty doing so. The immigration official had neither the time nor inclination to bother with a name he couldn’t spell, so he suggested that my grandfather take the surname Cohen.
Most of the Jews in America are named Cohen, he explained.
My grandfather was eager to become Americanized as soon as possible, and the thought of becoming part of a vast Jewish-American culture called Cohen excited him. So, on that day, Abraham Muggerman became Abraham Cohen.
My grandparents had three daughters and a son; Dora, Rebecca, Gertrude Leah, and Isadore, all born in the Bronx, New York. Dora was the eldest, and had to leave school at a very young age to work and help my grandparents financially. She scarcely had time to be a child, much less be concerned, as her sisters and brother were, as to whether or not the name Dora suited her persona, and she was the only sibling that did not change her name. But my aunt Dora was the kindest, gentlest person I have ever known, and a human treasure by any other name is still the same.
Rebecca, the youngest of the children, disliked her name with a strange passion, mostly because everyone called her Becky. Little Becky was sure that, one day, she was going to be a grand lady, and she wanted a name suitable for such stature. She insisted that she be known, at home and at school, as Beatrice because she thought that name sounded classy. Of course, everyone just called her Bea, but she always referred to herself as Beatrice. She was the first young woman in the neighborhood to bob her hair and wear her dresses only five inches below her knee, and she had very progressive ideas of what women’s place in society should be. My aunt Bea was the bane of her strict mothers existence, the envy of her sisters, and later, one of my most cherished friends.
Isadore truly hated his name because the boys in school called him Izzy. Some of the boys would chase him after school and, more often than not, rough him up. One day Isadore announced that, from that day forward he would be known as Jackson. He was not particularly fond of that name but he had learned from Bea’s experience that any name he chose would be immediately abbreviated, and he thought being called Jack would make him sound tough. My uncle Jack was a good son, a devoted husband and a loyal brother, but it wasn’t until he was sixty years old that he finally began to be good to himself, too.
My mother was Gertrude Leah. When she was a little girl she had a mop of curly red hair, and was always in the middle of any class mischief. She loved to talk and did so incessantly, especially in class. Her teacher called her Katrinka, which was the name of a hand-wound music box. Little gabby Gertrude thought that was a wonderful name and adopted it as her own. When her teacher took attendance, Gertrude would respond only to Katrinka, and after a while, Katrinka it was. Of course, the inevitable happened; everyone called her Katy, and another interesting name bit the dust. My mother was a tiny dynamo; protector, defender and keeper of the family flame.
So, Muggerman became Cohen, Rebecca became Bea, Isadore became Jack, Gertrude Leah became Katy: a family of aliases, perhaps too small in number to be an impressive family tree, but, for sure, they were a wonderful bush!
Copyright 2005
Pearl Hoffman
Published U. S. Legacies July 2005
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