This blog is supposed to be about my name and Barack Obama's name, but I've just discovered something so unnerving, I have to break protocol. As noted, my name used to be predictably rare. Now, every week seems to bring some new mainstreaming encroachment.
Today's indignity: Somehow, a screenwriter has given my name -- my full name, all two parts of it -- to a character in a crime movie about Hasidic Jews. The synopsis and proposed tag lines indicate that "Holy Rollers" (due next year) is about a super-religious Jew who gets involved in drug smuggling. Of course, my name goes to the morally bankrupt guy who lures the innocent into a life of crime. I wear the Wicked Son hat again.
But how did this happen? It's not like my name is Bob Jones. To my knowledge, only three people on Earth share it (and neither of the others has responded to my efforts at communication; one runs a research firm in Pennsylvania, and the other lives in Israel). So how on Earth did screenwriter Antonia Macia choose my name? Have we met?
If you know, please provide some intel in the comments section below.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Babies Making Headlines
Was it just two days ago that I typed "[a]fter thousands of babies are named after our first non-white President, my name may even become a commonplace"? It was! And now look:
Sunday's New York Times is already trumpeting the dawning of this blessed new era with a story by Jennifer 8. Lee entitled: "Like the Dwights and Lyndons of Old, Baby Baracks All Over." (Interesting for a web pro that the story has two titles: the above headline for human readers, and a simpler, blunter one for search engines ("Barack a Hot Name for New Babies").)
And here's a choice nugget:
And finally, it's almost worth noting that this story about the number of kids named Barack was written by a woman with a number for a middle name.
Sunday's New York Times is already trumpeting the dawning of this blessed new era with a story by Jennifer 8. Lee entitled: "Like the Dwights and Lyndons of Old, Baby Baracks All Over." (Interesting for a web pro that the story has two titles: the above headline for human readers, and a simpler, blunter one for search engines ("Barack a Hot Name for New Babies").)
And here's a choice nugget:
“Honoring new presidents with baby namesakes used to be an American tradition,” said Laura Wattenberg, author of “The Baby Name Wizard.” But she pointed out that the custom faded around the time of Watergate, in part because people became more cynical about the presidency.The gist of the story: Now that hope has replaced cynicism as a default attitude, gird yourself for a rash of presidentially monickered infants. And for names borrowed from Barack Obama's immediate family. And when that puppy finally shows up, you can bet dogs from coast to coast and Kenya too will answer to the same call ... whatever it is.
And finally, it's almost worth noting that this story about the number of kids named Barack was written by a woman with a number for a middle name.
Friday, November 7, 2008
What Can I Say?
In an earlier post today, I noted that my name has never been more time-consuming. People just want to talk about it. It's rarely the people I know -- it's everyone else. Often, they acknowledge how tired I must be of talking about the name Barack, even as they chatter merrily on about it. I'm not complaining; I'd just like a better, funnier way to respond. A few months ago, I told some friends I lacked a decent default response to comments on my name. One wag said, "That's easy: Just shake their hand and say, 'I'll appreciate your vote this November.'"
I did that a few times. It was an easy laugh, but it felt canned and kinda fake. In any case, the votes are in, and I need a new response. The hoopla may subside, and after thousands of babies are named after our first non-white President, my name may even become a commonplace. But till then, I'm looking for a charming way to respond to the endless remarks. If you have a suggestion, please provide it in the comments section below.
I did that a few times. It was an easy laugh, but it felt canned and kinda fake. In any case, the votes are in, and I need a new response. The hoopla may subside, and after thousands of babies are named after our first non-white President, my name may even become a commonplace. But till then, I'm looking for a charming way to respond to the endless remarks. If you have a suggestion, please provide it in the comments section below.
Rahm & Barack: Thunder & Lightning
My mom's been following Barack Obama's career enthusiastically ever since his 2004 speech. (She's been following my progress with some interest for a while longer.) Loyal readers of BarakorBarack may recall her little joke about my name (see earlier post).
Today, via the magic of email, she pointed out the trans-linguistic significance of Rahm Emanuel's name. As you may recall, my name means lightning in Hebrew, and Barack means blessed in Swahili. But Rahm -- and here's the weird part -- means thunder in Hebrew. So you could say that we'll soon have thunder and lightning in the White House. (Better than crooks and morons, he typed inflammatorily.)
The final wrinkle on the Rahm coincidence is that the newly appointed Chief of Staff's equally famous brother is named Ari ... which is my dad's name. It means lion in Hebrew. And of course, my dad also spells his name differently.
Oh, the endless fun. It's like I was born for this. In fact, when considering adding another entity to the family (way back when), my parents thought they'd name a boy Rahm. So, yes, we'd have grown up as Thunder and Lightning, and yes, we'd be in quite the conversational pickle now. Conveniently enough, none of that happened.
P.S.: As I was typing the last sentence, I got a Facebook message from a friend in Israel: "Your popularity must be skyrocketing now with such a name." Well, that's not exactly how I'd put it. But I'm open to skyrocketing popularity. My friend is a defense correspondent for a news channel; funny that he'd inadvertently include a munitions reference in a simple message.
Today, via the magic of email, she pointed out the trans-linguistic significance of Rahm Emanuel's name. As you may recall, my name means lightning in Hebrew, and Barack means blessed in Swahili. But Rahm -- and here's the weird part -- means thunder in Hebrew. So you could say that we'll soon have thunder and lightning in the White House. (Better than crooks and morons, he typed inflammatorily.)
The final wrinkle on the Rahm coincidence is that the newly appointed Chief of Staff's equally famous brother is named Ari ... which is my dad's name. It means lion in Hebrew. And of course, my dad also spells his name differently.
Oh, the endless fun. It's like I was born for this. In fact, when considering adding another entity to the family (way back when), my parents thought they'd name a boy Rahm. So, yes, we'd have grown up as Thunder and Lightning, and yes, we'd be in quite the conversational pickle now. Conveniently enough, none of that happened.
P.S.: As I was typing the last sentence, I got a Facebook message from a friend in Israel: "Your popularity must be skyrocketing now with such a name." Well, that's not exactly how I'd put it. But I'm open to skyrocketing popularity. My friend is a defense correspondent for a news channel; funny that he'd inadvertently include a munitions reference in a simple message.
Catching Up with Barak or Barack
Okay, okay, okay. I KNOW. I start a blog about my name and His Name, and then I not only abandon it but let Election Day pass without comment. What was I thinking? Well, I do have other things on my mind, and while this historic event has been among those most occupying my thoughts, writing about it has been of less import.
But now I'm back. For the last four years, my name has become steadily more noteworthy/time-consuming, and never has it been as much of a, uh, conversation piece as it is now. And I have so much to share. Are you ready?
The Volunteer
Five days before the election, I decided to do some "phone banking" (i.e., make calls) for His Campaign. Given His Landslide Victory, the urgency in that office was in retrospect almost comical ... but hey, that's how He won, right? So, I walk into the Hollywood offices of a firm called Partizan Entertainment (yes, with a Z, just like my last name), where about six people are talking animatedly on phones or to each other. I walk up to the oldest one and announce, realizing as I do so, how ridiculous this sounds: "Hi, my name is Barak Zimmerman, and I'm here to volunteer."
Everyone stops and looks at me, smiles broadening across their features. No one's smiling more than the guy running the show, who says, "Really?" He thinks I'm kidding, but not really, because what a dopey joke that would be. Plus, my sheepish smile makes it clear that I'm serious. Everyone who's not on a call is paying attention. It feels kind of like being a celebrity non-impersonator.
"It's been a long year for you, hasn't it?," he says.
"Yep."
"Is that your real name? I mean, do you have a nickname?"
"No, that's my name. No nickname. I have a blog about it."
"Well, my name's weird too. It's Haze."
"Haze? Is that short for anything?"
"No, it's an old, old family name. Goes back generations."
"Do you have a nickname?
"See? Now I've got you doing it too," he laughs.
The next thing he gets me doing is making calls. No script -- "I don't believe in scripts," he says. The volunteering is sort of meta-volunteering: We're calling people who'd volunteered during the primaries and asking them to staff call centers over the weekend and on Monday and Tuesday. I decide to simplify things by calling myself "John." And I do, at first.
But I'd had a beer before arriving, so my usual blinding intelligence is on hiatus. And so it came to pass that by the third successful call (that which yielded a conversation and not voicemail), I forget my alias and begin the call with: "Hi, my name is Barak Zimmerman, and I'm calling you on behalf of the Barack Obama campaign. How are you this evening?"
Naturally, this provokes a response.
And I wish I could tell you what that response was, but by now, I've been dealing with this for so long that they all blend into one another. Except the few I'm writing about.
Let's wrap up the volunteering story: It was fun to re-engage with the process, I was glad to be there, and not all the people I reached even noticed my name. It was a reminder of the accretive power of many tiny acts: As minute as my efforts seemed to be -- I got four people to agree to receive an email telling them where they might volunteer over the last four days of the campaign, and I crossed off a few dead numbers -- it was the collective power of thousands of people doing just such tiny acts that led to victory.
At a certain point, I overheard Haze talking with another person about editing a document. I thought my time might be better used editing than phoning, so I volunteered to lend my skills to improving a message he was planning to send to his loyalists.
The fierce urgency of his now was surprising to me, a reminder of the fervor that campaigns provoke. I recall walking door to door to rally my neighbors in another presidential campaign many years ago. Over the course of weeks, as we attempted to extract every possible vote from our block, I repeatedly disturbed one old recluse who never came to the door but would yell from her second-floor window that she wanted to be left alone.
Undeterred, I'd call back, "But can we count on you to vote next week?"
What a pain I was. And that guy did NOT win. Of course, that guy didn't have the Internet or Shepard Fairey on his side. Or my name.
But now I'm back. For the last four years, my name has become steadily more noteworthy/time-consuming, and never has it been as much of a, uh, conversation piece as it is now. And I have so much to share. Are you ready?
The Volunteer
Five days before the election, I decided to do some "phone banking" (i.e., make calls) for His Campaign. Given His Landslide Victory, the urgency in that office was in retrospect almost comical ... but hey, that's how He won, right? So, I walk into the Hollywood offices of a firm called Partizan Entertainment (yes, with a Z, just like my last name), where about six people are talking animatedly on phones or to each other. I walk up to the oldest one and announce, realizing as I do so, how ridiculous this sounds: "Hi, my name is Barak Zimmerman, and I'm here to volunteer."
Everyone stops and looks at me, smiles broadening across their features. No one's smiling more than the guy running the show, who says, "Really?" He thinks I'm kidding, but not really, because what a dopey joke that would be. Plus, my sheepish smile makes it clear that I'm serious. Everyone who's not on a call is paying attention. It feels kind of like being a celebrity non-impersonator.
"It's been a long year for you, hasn't it?," he says.
"Yep."
"Is that your real name? I mean, do you have a nickname?"
"No, that's my name. No nickname. I have a blog about it."
"Well, my name's weird too. It's Haze."
"Haze? Is that short for anything?"
"No, it's an old, old family name. Goes back generations."
"Do you have a nickname?
"See? Now I've got you doing it too," he laughs.
The next thing he gets me doing is making calls. No script -- "I don't believe in scripts," he says. The volunteering is sort of meta-volunteering: We're calling people who'd volunteered during the primaries and asking them to staff call centers over the weekend and on Monday and Tuesday. I decide to simplify things by calling myself "John." And I do, at first.
But I'd had a beer before arriving, so my usual blinding intelligence is on hiatus. And so it came to pass that by the third successful call (that which yielded a conversation and not voicemail), I forget my alias and begin the call with: "Hi, my name is Barak Zimmerman, and I'm calling you on behalf of the Barack Obama campaign. How are you this evening?"
Naturally, this provokes a response.
And I wish I could tell you what that response was, but by now, I've been dealing with this for so long that they all blend into one another. Except the few I'm writing about.
Let's wrap up the volunteering story: It was fun to re-engage with the process, I was glad to be there, and not all the people I reached even noticed my name. It was a reminder of the accretive power of many tiny acts: As minute as my efforts seemed to be -- I got four people to agree to receive an email telling them where they might volunteer over the last four days of the campaign, and I crossed off a few dead numbers -- it was the collective power of thousands of people doing just such tiny acts that led to victory.
At a certain point, I overheard Haze talking with another person about editing a document. I thought my time might be better used editing than phoning, so I volunteered to lend my skills to improving a message he was planning to send to his loyalists.
The fierce urgency of his now was surprising to me, a reminder of the fervor that campaigns provoke. I recall walking door to door to rally my neighbors in another presidential campaign many years ago. Over the course of weeks, as we attempted to extract every possible vote from our block, I repeatedly disturbed one old recluse who never came to the door but would yell from her second-floor window that she wanted to be left alone.
Undeterred, I'd call back, "But can we count on you to vote next week?"
What a pain I was. And that guy did NOT win. Of course, that guy didn't have the Internet or Shepard Fairey on his side. Or my name.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Barack Tease
In the beginning, way back in the dark, dim recesses of time (last week), I promised to reveal specifics of what it’s like to grow up with the name Barak. Which would be, one imagines, very much like growing up with the name ... Barack. What small currency I have in the connection, well, I'm about to toss it up on the bar. Will it be enough for a drink at the tap of immortality? No? How about a drink at the tap of Heineken?
Whatever you're pouring, join me now at the Virtual History Dome and, peering through a cloudy crystal of memory and projection, let's observe the young Barack as he takes abuse from his classmates.
Of course, unlike me, the young Barack was smart enough to mitigate the effects of his freaky Semitic name and adopt that horrific "Brady Bunch" nickname previously dismissed in these very pixels: Barry. Fair enough. Barack was an operator from way back, just like every pundit is saying this week.
Superficial similarities aside, I have little to offer in the way of empathetic reflections, because, well, I wasn't fresh off the boat from Indonesia, I wasn't black, I wasn't between religions, and while my white mom was certainly plowing her own furrow in the world, like Mom Obama, and my dad was a foreigner and kind of an extremist in his own way, like Papa Obama, that about sums up the overlaps. I was no lanky black Barry -- I was just a chunky little Jewish Barak with long hair, freckles, glasses, and the weirdest name in the schoolyard. Should I have adopted a simpler name and removed one obstacle to adaptation? Was that the presidential move? I never made those moves. Maybe I liked the name and wasn't looking to blend in.
April Is the Cruelest Child
Kids. Everyone knows kids are cruel. Everyone knows kids who are cruel. Except their own spirited little darlings. Even the most tormented children turn oppressor at the first opportunity. Like fat April, who had perma-cooties and the sharpest tongue in class. Whatever your weakness -- weight, walleyes, wonkiness -- kids will seize it and tease it till something unravels. And if nothing unravels, either you've walloped them but good and established some higher spot in the pecking order, or you've learned to put up with stuff.
Because really, how bad is it to be called "broccoli"? Or more faithfully perhaps, "Barak-aly." It's not so bad. Now, anyway. My parents must have laughed when I first came home full of bitter reproach, accusing them of having set me up from birth for vegetative ridicule. (Nothing like those kiwi loons in yesterday's paper -- they really do deserve anything they get.) But in fact, my aversion to exercise did make me kind of a vegetable. More a turnip than a broccoli, but that kind of leap across the produce aisle lies beyond the schoolyard pale. And humor, even the basest kind, dies in explanation.
Island Sounds
Unlike pop songs. Oh, to hear again some pint-size wag crooning, "I am Barak, I am an island." Seems charming now. That reference might pack less of a punch in Hawaii than in L.A., but if the kid is in fact somewhat cut off from classmates by geography, background, and temperament, the insinuation of total emotional isolation stings. I suspect Barack may have dealt with that one. Though Barry may have dodged it.
But as one ages and enters, for example, 7th grade Music Appreciation class, the teasing develops a veneer of sophistication. As any Gregory knows, the chants and the calendar are a revelation for tiny taunters. The Renaissance lacks hooks for ridicule, and all's well ... till we reach the Baroque Period.
Then all hell breaks loose. Some back-row smartypants sneers "Baroque Obama," for example, and the crowd goes wild. "Hey, Baroque -- where's your sister, Rococo?" and on and on. Even the teacher couldn’t help but laugh. In fact, to this day, the British, those Lords of Wit, generally find my name funny. Let's see how the joke plays at 10 Downing Street next year.
Barak-a-Doodle-Doo
Years pass, and name-based teasing fades away. High school kids have to be pretty backward to tease other kids for their names. (Sorry, Harry Tsomides, for everything you put up with in 12th grade. I hope things got better later.)
Harry's name may yet be an exception, but at a certain point, an eccentric name becomes ... almost an asset. People remember you. You always have something to talk about for three minutes upon meeting someone. And Barak and Barack, for example, lend themselves to friendly wordplay. B-rock. Barack and roll! Barak the house! Barack the vote! I don't encourage this, but I don't mind it. It's just what people do. Nicknaming starts out a control issue and usually turns into something else with age. Except among sports fans and TV commentators. Draw your own conclusions.
Much as I thought my name was an abuse magnet in school, either my memory is gone, or there wasn't really so much to deal with. I guess there was a lot of Ba-cock and Barak-a-doodle-doo and so on, but ... it wasn't Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii (see kiwi loons, above ... or below).
And after a time, having a name like Barak is just like having one blue eye and one green eye ... or an extra finger. Or bright red hair. (I have all these things.) (OK, no, I don't, but it's a funny image.) You get used to it, and you don't talk about it as much. It becomes just another thing you live with.
Unless things change, and the unusual becomes usual. And having a name like Barak becomes like having a name like Barack. Very, very, very much like that.
And then, little by little, having a name like Barak becomes a topic again.
Whatever you're pouring, join me now at the Virtual History Dome and, peering through a cloudy crystal of memory and projection, let's observe the young Barack as he takes abuse from his classmates.
Of course, unlike me, the young Barack was smart enough to mitigate the effects of his freaky Semitic name and adopt that horrific "Brady Bunch" nickname previously dismissed in these very pixels: Barry. Fair enough. Barack was an operator from way back, just like every pundit is saying this week.
Superficial similarities aside, I have little to offer in the way of empathetic reflections, because, well, I wasn't fresh off the boat from Indonesia, I wasn't black, I wasn't between religions, and while my white mom was certainly plowing her own furrow in the world, like Mom Obama, and my dad was a foreigner and kind of an extremist in his own way, like Papa Obama, that about sums up the overlaps. I was no lanky black Barry -- I was just a chunky little Jewish Barak with long hair, freckles, glasses, and the weirdest name in the schoolyard. Should I have adopted a simpler name and removed one obstacle to adaptation? Was that the presidential move? I never made those moves. Maybe I liked the name and wasn't looking to blend in.
April Is the Cruelest Child
Kids. Everyone knows kids are cruel. Everyone knows kids who are cruel. Except their own spirited little darlings. Even the most tormented children turn oppressor at the first opportunity. Like fat April, who had perma-cooties and the sharpest tongue in class. Whatever your weakness -- weight, walleyes, wonkiness -- kids will seize it and tease it till something unravels. And if nothing unravels, either you've walloped them but good and established some higher spot in the pecking order, or you've learned to put up with stuff.
Because really, how bad is it to be called "broccoli"? Or more faithfully perhaps, "Barak-aly." It's not so bad. Now, anyway. My parents must have laughed when I first came home full of bitter reproach, accusing them of having set me up from birth for vegetative ridicule. (Nothing like those kiwi loons in yesterday's paper -- they really do deserve anything they get.) But in fact, my aversion to exercise did make me kind of a vegetable. More a turnip than a broccoli, but that kind of leap across the produce aisle lies beyond the schoolyard pale. And humor, even the basest kind, dies in explanation.
Island Sounds
Unlike pop songs. Oh, to hear again some pint-size wag crooning, "I am Barak, I am an island." Seems charming now. That reference might pack less of a punch in Hawaii than in L.A., but if the kid is in fact somewhat cut off from classmates by geography, background, and temperament, the insinuation of total emotional isolation stings. I suspect Barack may have dealt with that one. Though Barry may have dodged it.
But as one ages and enters, for example, 7th grade Music Appreciation class, the teasing develops a veneer of sophistication. As any Gregory knows, the chants and the calendar are a revelation for tiny taunters. The Renaissance lacks hooks for ridicule, and all's well ... till we reach the Baroque Period.
Then all hell breaks loose. Some back-row smartypants sneers "Baroque Obama," for example, and the crowd goes wild. "Hey, Baroque -- where's your sister, Rococo?" and on and on. Even the teacher couldn’t help but laugh. In fact, to this day, the British, those Lords of Wit, generally find my name funny. Let's see how the joke plays at 10 Downing Street next year.
Barak-a-Doodle-Doo
Years pass, and name-based teasing fades away. High school kids have to be pretty backward to tease other kids for their names. (Sorry, Harry Tsomides, for everything you put up with in 12th grade. I hope things got better later.)
Harry's name may yet be an exception, but at a certain point, an eccentric name becomes ... almost an asset. People remember you. You always have something to talk about for three minutes upon meeting someone. And Barak and Barack, for example, lend themselves to friendly wordplay. B-rock. Barack and roll! Barak the house! Barack the vote! I don't encourage this, but I don't mind it. It's just what people do. Nicknaming starts out a control issue and usually turns into something else with age. Except among sports fans and TV commentators. Draw your own conclusions.
Much as I thought my name was an abuse magnet in school, either my memory is gone, or there wasn't really so much to deal with. I guess there was a lot of Ba-cock and Barak-a-doodle-doo and so on, but ... it wasn't Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii (see kiwi loons, above ... or below).
And after a time, having a name like Barak is just like having one blue eye and one green eye ... or an extra finger. Or bright red hair. (I have all these things.) (OK, no, I don't, but it's a funny image.) You get used to it, and you don't talk about it as much. It becomes just another thing you live with.
Unless things change, and the unusual becomes usual. And having a name like Barak becomes like having a name like Barack. Very, very, very much like that.
And then, little by little, having a name like Barak becomes a topic again.
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