I had changed my name, changed my place, and rediscovered my true self
Photo: Esther Tscholkowsky
Ichose the name Beth for you, my father once told me. Elizabeth was out of the question. Beth was perfect: short and sweet.
For his American daughter with a golden future before her, my father didn’t want a name with any heavy associations or allusions to the past; just a pretty name with a nice sound.
But he conceded on one thing: He gave me the middle name Esther in memory of my great-grandmother, the mother of my Grandma Mina.
Grandma Mina had a different view of my middle name; to her it was a connection to the past. “Remember you are a Jew, and be proud of it,” she repeatedly told me throughout my childhood. It took years before I was able to hear and understand that message.
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