14 June, 2014
Houston
What's in a name?
It is easy to spot someone from New Orleans in a phone book: Toups, Hymel, Haydel, Carrière, Gravois, leBlanc, Cuccia, Lala, Testa, Foto, Greco, Heidingsfelder, Duplantier, Buras, Bordenave, Dupuy, Deboisblanc, Picou, Badeau, etc. There are many, many surnames which we all know, that reflect the ethnic and cultural diversity of the city and its outlying areas.
I grew up in New Orleans, but my family name comes from West Virginia. In a list of the Vicknairs, Blanchards, Troxlers, and Puglias, it stuck out like an Anglo sore thumb. I might as well have been named Ken Foreigner.
Tell someone your name is Bourgeois, Hébert, or Grieshaber and you don't get a second look. Say HALL and you have to repeat it a few times, and then expect the inevitable question: "So, where are you from?" It was their nice way of letting me know that, even though I have been in New Orleans off and on since I was 4 months old, I'm still an Ausländer.
Even when you die, the city's newspaper, the Times-Picayune takes great delight reminding the public that the dearly-departed was a "native of XYZ and a lifelong resident of New Orleans," as if citizenship in the Crescent City was something conferred at birth only. Everyone else was just a resident, and thus not really a true New Orleanian.
I first became aware of this name stigma at the tenderfoot age of eleven, when I joined the Boy Scouts. They found out I was born in upstate New York, so they nicknamed me "Yank." No self-respecting Southern boy of Creole lineage wants to be called Yank, but that was my nickname, and I was glad they called me nothing worse!
When I went to Ferncrest elementary, I was the only HALL in my ENTIRE SCHOOL. Things got no better in Junior High and High School, except that in High School there actually was another Hall, and everybody thought we were related.
One day, when I was a sales representative for an air freight company, I had an appointment with a Ms. Yasich. This was an old Louisiana Croatian name, just like Yuratich, Lulich, Zuvich, and Zibilich, and with that everyone knew these people came from Buras or Empire - communities downriver from New Orleans, where Croatians (technically Dalmatians) settled over a century ago.
The secretary just couldn't pronounce my last name! I repeated it several times, and finally, injecting humor in order to ward off frustration, I put on a thick Russian accent, saying: "I am from Raasha. Ven I komink to Amerika, nobodi kann pronownz my name - Alexis Andrei Irisovich Dniepropetrovski - so I am changink my name - and for vat? Steel no kann pronounsink my name!"
As a result of that phony Russian Schtick, I got a bit part in a TV sci-fi program called Morgus Presents. And I even got PAID for it. Who would have thought that I would get money for being a foreigner?
One day, at the company where I worked, we hired a new sales representative, whose last name was Chèramie. Having grown up in the New Orleans area, I knew that name came from deep down in de Bayou. I asked: "With a name like Chèramie, you must be from Golden Meadow." Chèramie means dear-friend in French.
He looked up from whatever he was doing and smiled. He said: "You got it! And you, with that name, "Hall," you better watch it when you drive through there, if you're coming back from fishing, boy - you're sure to get a big ticket!"
"You see," he explained, "if you go even one mile over the speed limit, they're gonna nail you good! Now, me, I can go as fast as I want. If they pull me over, I just flash that Drivers' License with that "Chèramie" name on it, and they know I'm from there - so they won't mess with me."
I got transferred to Houston soon thereafter, and the conversation was soon forgotten. Chèramie got called up to Active Duty overseas, and I took his place for that time back in New Orleans. I heard a story about a fishing trip he took. He was coming back late one evening with three other men, and they all had been fishing way down in Grand Isle. Sure enough, the car full of tired fishermen got caught in that infamous Golden Meadow speed trap. This big, strapping Louisiana cop with a wide-brim hat was protecting and serving the public by generating more funds for the local constabulary, thanks to the driver's lead-foot syndrome.
Chèramie was sitting in the back seat behind the driver. He got out of his seat and opened the door, wallet in hand, ready to flash that magical "Chèramie" license, and get them off the hook. That tough cop took one look at him and yelled: "You get your a*s back in that car, sit down, and shut up!"
"Yes, Sir," came the polite response, and he complied immediately without any further sound. He had gotten an attitude adjustment - Louisiana Style!
When Chèramie finally gotten back from his tour of duty, we had a meeting to welcome him back. At an intermission, I couldn't resist saying: "Hey, Chèramie - I heard about that trip of yours down through Golden Meadows..." (He was not happy I brought that up.)
"I thought that all you had to do was flash that 'Chèramie' license, and they'd let you go." I continued, digging it in deeper.
"SHUT UP, Hall" he said, squirming in his chair.
"Yeah, but didn't you tell me...?"
"SHUT UP, Hall"
What's in a name? Sometimes not too much.
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