A Mari Gold by Any Other Name...

I hate my name! God, I hate my name! What were my “flower child” hippie parents thinking? I get it. It was the Sixties. Lots of kids were blessed or cursed, with names best suited for nature. I even have a friend named Rainbow! But my name is more like a lame pun, than a traditional name. There was even un-bridled snickering when my name was sweetly whispered over a baptismal fountain in church during my Christening. Is nothing sacred?

My first name is Mari. My last name is Gold. That’s right! I’m Mari Gold. Yup, now comes the good-natured barbs filled with botanical, and floral references. I’m used to it. I’ve even given up my plans to have it legally changed. The first time I brought the idea up, mother burst into tears and fled the room. That was a big “no!” Later I proposed just dropping the I at the end of Mari, but that caused fleeing and tears also. I may hate my name, but I really love my mom, so Mari Gold it is…

It’s been years since mom, and I had our shared little tantrum over my given name. I’ve found it’s a little more agreeable when I’m introduced, to make the first joke about my name. Kind of a “beat you to it,” lighthearted moment rather than being the butt of a joke. “What’s in a name,” anyway?

Rifling through her private papers feels intrusive. I know she wanted me to oversee her estate, but it is far more daunting than I had anticipated. The first major surprise after her passing was the extensive amount of funds she had “squirreled away.” The woman who taught me the value of a good coupon and the merits of thrifting, was a millionaire! She had taken such good care of me all her life, and she continues even after her death. Thanks mom.

It is a small and curious little package I found under her bed that pulls me from the tedium of contracts, receipts, and paperwork. Wrapped in age worn paper adorned with bright Marigolds, is a charm hanging from a shiny delicate gold chain. On the back of the charm is the word daughter and a birth date. The date is twenty years before I was born. Under the date is a name. The name is Mari.

Mother seemed to be very open about her past, but a little judgmental and “prudish” at times. She had no time for what she labeled “other people’s misbehaviors.” Digging even deeper into her paperwork, I am gifted with perhaps an answer to the mystery daughter, her attitudes and why the charm is part of a secret. Bound tightly and taped in several places is a pile of papers that appear to be from long ago. Pulling the fragile, age worn, yellow papers apart I see statements such as “un-wed mother, illegitimate baby girl, and father not available.” A document confirms that a baby girl was born to my grandmother, and then given to a family in the same town. My mother appears to have fallen victim to the archaic shame of un-married love in the thirties. She must have re-united with her birth mother, my grandmother, before I was born, because I was never aware that she had lived her entire childhood with foster parents. Mother left me with so many unanswered questions. Questions I will probably never have answers to. There is one, however, that tells me who I am.

At what point and why did grandmother give permission to change your name, mom? Along with all the hidden paperwork from your past is your birth certificate and legal papers for your name to be changed to Helen. The name Mari suits you mom, and the Gold, well that was just my bad luck.