What's in a Name

1935 Andy, mom holding Mary and Dottie

 

I’m not sure if it snowed the day of my birth. I know that it held the typical cold of a February night in Brooklyn, the kind that pulls tears from the eyes and chaps cheeks into red flags. My mother, Anna, labored for three days to bring me, her third and last child, into the world. The labor took so long because of my birth weight of nine pounds, or so I’ve been told. I wonder about the truthfulness of this, since my older siblings weighed twelve and ten pounds at birth. How could a mere nine pounds give Mom such a hard time?

            My siblings’ births took place at home without benefit of accurate scales so I doubt the veracity of their weights. I have to believe my birth weight because I see it recorded on the very official looking birth certificate from Park Slope’s biggest and best hospital, Methodist Hospital, on the corner of 7^th Ave. and 6^th St. This momentous event in my life occurred without fanfare on February 9, 1935 at 3:45 AM.

            The matter of naming the new baby girl created another conflict for my parents. My grandmother had been called Mary Ann. When my sister arrived nine years before me, Mama wanted to name her Mary Ann after her mother. But Daddy like the actress Dorothy Gish, hence my sisters name...Dorothy.

            A year after Dorothy’s birth and eight years before mine, my brother entered the world. They named him Andrew Jr. after my father. I wonder why they didn’t call him Douglas or Gilbert after the hottest male stars of 1927.

            When I came along, Mama again wanted to name her daughter Mary Ann. By this time Daddy liked Loretta Young. Mama insisted on Mary Ann and Daddy insisted on Loretta. They finally reached a compromise. I became Mary Loretta. Mama didn’t really give in that easily. It didn’t matter what name my birth certificate said, she called me Mary Ann throughout my childhood, and so did the rest of the family. I attended school before I knew my correct name.

              The great depression had crushed my family’s standard of living and depleted their finances. Franklin Roosevelt, in the white house, put his “New Deal” into operation. He promised a turnaround in the economy with a glut of alphabet letters, NRA, WPA, CCC, TVA. My father, Andrew, had been out of work for months and the family received “relief”...welfare in those days. When the WPA (I believe the letters stand for Works Progress Administration) came to New York, my father, an iron worker, finally got work building bridges, parks and offices in the City of New York. The work, although sporadic, at least brought some money into the household.

During her pregnancy, Mama received medical care from the hospital clinic. The cost for pre natal care and delivery totaled $60, but even this amount, Daddy couldn’t pay. He ignored the hospital bill in favor of the grocer, landlord, and I must confess, for Daddy, the local bar & grill. For years, when my parents got into an argument, Mama flung an accusation at Daddy.

            “You never paid for Mary Ann. You spent it at the bar instead.”

            Hearing this, reinforced my belief that parents bought babies at the hospital like candy in the corner store. I thought they went to the nursery and chose a baby like I chose licorice or chocolate. Since I wasn’t paid for, was I stolen? Or bought on the installment plan and Daddy didn’t make payments? Would the hospital come and repossess me? I never voiced these fears to my parents, and in time came to understand what “not being paid for” really meant. It had nothing to do with me. Parents seldom realize how much what they say affects a listening child. I often wonder if I’ve committed the same insensitive sin. Probably.