My maternal grandfather arrived at Ellis Island in the early 1900’s as Wiktor Murawski and left as William Moransky. The agent wanted him to be “Moran” but my grandfather, insisting he was to remain Polish, agreed to accept “-sky” on the end of the proposed Irish name. Back then, Immigration agents seemed to have a preference for the initial sound of a name. Thus, the Slavic “W,” resembling the English “wah,” became “William” instead of “Victor.” This is probably the reason why my mother, some half-dozen years later, became “Victoria.” However, all of her relatives and friends called her “Vicki.” My Polish grandmother’s name also underwent spelling changes. Rosalia Olupkwicz became Rose Yulip, sometimes, Elip.
The Italian side fared better. My grandfather Luigi became Lewis Camerino. It’s possible that his Immigration agent was Welsh and chose this spelling instead of “Louis.” My paternal grandmother, Dologizia Russo, became the more anglicized “Dorothy.” When my father came along, he was baptized Pellegrino, which means “pilgrim.” As a result, my own problems later became more associated with those of Johnny Cash than John Wayne.
When Pellegrino started school, his teacher was unwilling to call him by such a strange name, or she may have had difficulty spelling it. Family legend has it that he was designated as “Patty.” No reason was given as to why it was not “Paddy,” except my Italian grandfather, like my Polish one, probably did not want anything that could be interpreted as Irish.
Decades later, when I was to be baptized, my mother chose “Ronald” for my first name; she had a great liking for the actor Ronald Coleman. Back then, mothers were thought to be too frail, following childbirth, to leave the house, even for a baptism at church. When my father returned after the ceremony, he announced I had been baptized after him. I left home unnamed and returned as “Patty.” Among all of our relatives I became “Patty Jr.” At Lincoln Elementary, the name omitted the “Junior.” During the first six years in grade school, problems about my name were limited. This was not the case when I entered Washington Junior High School.
For some reason gender designation was not part of the transfer record. As Patty, I was automatically enrolled for seventh grade classes in Home Economics and girls’ gym. The error was quickly corrected. On the other hand, larger problems began to loom. As time passed, I began to dislike the name everyone called me, for its own, intrinsic, gender confusion and, even more so, because of the increasing estrangement between my father and me. Temporary relief came during the eighth grade when we moved from Niles to my grandmother’s farm in Mineral Ridge and I was enrolled as “Pat” in my new junior high. The problem resurfaced when, in the following year, we returned to Niles and the old neighborhood.
The memory of former and new classmates led to a mixture of “Patty” and “Pat,” divided, in part, on how close a friend the person might be. At Niles McKinley High School, new friends would use “Pat,” old friends might use either version, but rivals, new or old, found “Patty” to be a most useful put-down. The only positive result of the name confusion, if looked upon as such, came at graduation when I, along with all of the female students, received a shoebox-size, cedar hope-chest from a local department store!
In my teenage years when I chose a name for my Confirmation in the Catholic Church, I took on “William,” the American name of my maternal grandfather and his elder son, my favorite uncle. This name also gave me the middle initial “W,” which was usually not found among female names. Thus, when I entered college, and forever after, I could present myself as “Pat W.” Then, in the summer of 1965, the name became legal.
As I was about to enter service in the federal government, I needed to produce a copy of my birth certificate. The official one I received in response to a recent inquiry to the State of Ohio had a most interesting inclusion for my name. The line read “Baby Boy!” I had been born thirty years previously on my grandmother’s farm. No one had reported a name to the State of Ohio. Much to my father’s dislike, I convinced my mother to go with me to the county courthouse to testify that I was “Pat William Camerino.” A new birth certificate was issued; my record with the Social Security Administration was amended.
My alias, my aka, is now “Patty,” for everything else I’m really “Pat W.” or, if I’m in the mood, “Pat Wm.” So, what’s in a name? A lot!