How I Came To Find My Name

Names play a fascinating role in my family, and was the reason behind why ‘B. R. Cloth’ came to be. I was never fond of my name as a child, and would dream of names I'd rather be called. Would Westin be befitting? Would Eldridge make me unique? If I hadn’t been a Benjamin, would my personality have changed? Is who I am innately invariant? Nominative Determinism is the theory behind your name being a determining factor in the life you end up living, thus resulting in the effect of forming who you eventually become. I’m sure my poor mother has something to say on the matter; she was born Robin Jaye.

As the story goes, she once asked her mother why she was cursed with such a name. My grandmother eloquently responded with, “Because of my fondness for birds,” as though that was a perfectly acceptable reason. In an ironic twist of fate, my grandmother, in turn, hated a name given to her. She insisted her grandchildren call her Grandy, as Grandma was unacceptable. “Well why did you name her Brenda ?” my mother insisted, referring to her sister, liking it as a better option than Robin. Once again, in the fashion of southern charm, she responded matter-of-factly, “I didn’t name her, my mother picked it out for me.” I assume this was the reason Grandy tried to name me, insisting I be called Brian, despite my mother’s objection.

As is in Jewish custom, I was named in memory of deceased loved ones; the B and R in my name being the link to my family ancestors. Grandy couldn’t accept my name and would often call me B. R.. She tried to nickname me Rye Bread, though it didn’t stick for long. “I don’t care what you call him, but his name is Benjamin Ryan,” my mother told her. I think my mother wanted strong beginning names for her children because of the last name she was forced to pass down. With two birds in her name, she had married a man who brought to the table the last name of Cloth. “We should name our first son Terry,” my mother used to joke. Somehow I think it was her way of dealing with the situation at hand.

My father’s last name almost didn’t come to fruition. Somewhere in Russia amid persecution and turmoil, a father and two sons hastily fled for safety. What happened to the mother is lost to history I suppose. They stumbled upon a dead soldier, and while picketing him for money and supplies, three tickets to America were found. The last name of Levinson written upon them. Assuming the name as their own, they made their way from Asia to Europe and landed safely on American soil as the Levinson's. One brother went north and one brother went south. The northern brother soon changed his name back to Cloth, but taking the English word, not the Russian one, as they still feared they would be caught. The southern brother, fearful as well, kept Levinson as a safeguard, but told the story to his children, and his children did the same in turn.

My father was born a Levinson. When his mother and father were courting, his mother insisted, “Before we get married you must make a choice, either change the name to Cloth now or don’t talk about doing it afterward!” The Levinson's got married. Once expecting their first child, my grandmother insisted again, “Before we have children you must make a choice, either change the name to Cloth now or don’t talk about doing it afterward!” After my uncle and father were born, my grandfather dragged his family to court, and the next day they were officially the Cloth’s. Shirley Levinson became Shirley Cloth - my poor grandmother. My mother jokes often how she prefers Levinson to Cloth. "As soon as your father dies I'm getting my name changed, you in?"

This name change wasn’t an issue for my father until he joined the military, had children, and was assigned to move to Würzburg, Germany. Extensive background checks are done for Americans moving overseas, and when it came to him, there was an issue. His birth certificate didn’t match his last name. The paperwork hadn’t been filed correctly those many years ago. Rushing to Virginia, he searched his parent’s house - they were, by then, both diseased, and his brother had moved in, thankfully leaving most of the house untouched. The documents were finally uncovered and brought to the courthouse where his name was legitimized. It was in Germany by sheer coincidence that we met another American family with the last name of Cloth - long lost cousins we didn’t know we had.

The curse of names continues, fear not. Both of my grandfathers were named Dick, an unfortunate name I was blessed not to receive. But leave it to my mother to make name-stories even more concrete in this family of ours. Her high school sweetheart was named Mark. After leaving for college they broke up. “Is it weird that your brother in-law was your ex boyfriend?” I've asked her before. "I dodged a bullet with that one!" she always remarks. Mark’s family was close with ours, and he stuck around, eventually falling in love with and marrying her sister, Brenda. Of course my mother ended up finding a man in college with the last name of Cloth and the first name of Mark. Don't be shocked to learn that my mother’s brother is also named Mark. Three Marks, and two Dicks weren’t enough, however. Aunt Brenda’s daughter married a Daniel, who shares his name with my brother. And when the couple finally had their first son, they named him Elliot - my cat's name. Whatever, I picked Elliot first.

My cat's actual name is Elliot Fletcher, I call him one and then the other. It make sense as to why I couldn't settle on just one name, I couldn’t even decide what I wanted to be called growing up. “If you don’t call me Ben, I’m not responding to you,” I told my parents one day. Everyone had always only called me Benjamin until my second grade teacher referred to me as Ben. I never knew I could have a nickname, and held on tightly to it. I refused to respond to my parents until they used Ben, and it stuck. Benny and Benji were used in high school. And for a short while in college, I went by Benning - it was befitting seeing as I was born in Ft. Benning, Ga.

All of this lingers over me as I embrace my inability to decide what name to use once I publish my manuscripts. My name didn’t ever determine who I was. Who I was always determined my name. I'll soon be is an author of books, a writer of moments, a story teller of emotions, and a recorder of imaginations. I have been called by many things, and so I am all of those things. Yet all of them stem from passing on the lineage of my family by remembering those who came before. My name is Benjamin Ryan, but to you, you may call me. B. R. Cloth.