A mother. A daughter. A topic.
My Maiden name was Kram.
It was nice and short and went well with Cindy.
Cindy Kram.
Easy to remember, and easy to spell.
And the fun part of the name was that it was ”Mark” spelled backwards.
My dad named his manufacturing company “Mark Industries” (a nice little family inside joke). And, I’m pretty sure I have a cousin out there named Mark Kram (funny family huh?).
People used to tell me that my last name was almost certainly shortened from “Kramer” (a well known German name) when my grandfather immigrated to this country, but my dad denied it…adamantly…as did his dad.
But I didn’t care. I just thought it was cool that it was Mark spelled backwards.
Growing up, I never felt a strong attachment to the name. But I identified with it. I was Cindy Kram.
I guess, as a girl, I got the message early on that it was a temporary moniker that I’d someday shed for another, so don’t get too close. Boys are raised with the expectation that they will keep their last names and “carry on” the name throughout the generations, but none of that pressure (or expectation) is bestowed upon girls.
But I was raised in a pretty progressive family where most of the gender expectations were being challenged on a regular basis. So when it came to actually changing my name when I got married…I really had to think about whether or not I wanted a new name.
I felt like I could choose to take on a new name…or not, (which actually ended up causing me lots of angst).
Should I hold onto my given name and buck tradition? Did Cindy Kram carry an attachment to my heritage and history that I should hold on to? Did giving up my last name for a man mean that I wasn’t an independent woman? Did I want to have a different last name than my husband? Or… my (future) kids?
Finally…it came down to the most important question of all…did I like the name?
Carrillo. Cindy Carrillo.
It kind of flowed.
I liked the two “C’s.”
But I couldn’t roll my “rrrrrr’s” when saying the name (unless I used the phlegm in my throat) and felt a bit intimidated by a name that I knew carried a whole new ethnicity with it.
Most folks think its Italian, but it’s actually Hispanic. Or rather Spanish…as my mother-in-law used to tell me.
But even so, she said I didn’t have to role the “rrrrrrr’s.” She said they pronounced it with a hard “r” and “l” sound (Car-ril-lo)…not (Carrrrr-eee-yo).
So I tried it on. Played with it. Wrote it down. Practiced a new signature. Pretended that I was being introduced at a party, “I’d like you to meet Cindy Carrillo.”
And I started to like the way it felt.
Only then did I start to embrace the idea of taking on a new name with true enthusiasm (and let go of all the other stuff).
But not my mom.
She never really loved the name Kram herself (her maiden name was Dankner – so not all that wonderful on its own!), but I think she liked the married identity that the name brought to her. And that it was shorter than her maiden name (she loved having a full name that was only 7 letters – Del Kram). And (if truth be told)…that it was Jewish.
And Carrillo was not.
So she came up with an alternative that she carefully proposed to Brian and me.
She explained that since Brian was becoming a doctor…and we were now living in a time when women shouldn’t have to change their names to match their husband (ALWAYS the feminist)…she thought we BOTH should change our names to…
Cohen. A nice Jewish name.
Brian would be Dr. Cohen: a nice Jewish doctor.
Problem solved.
Except I kinda liked the whole Hispanic (sorry…Spanish) thing. It’s not often a blonde haired- blue eyed-Jew-from the suburbs of Detroit, could get a new layer to her identity without anyone judging her.
So I took the name Carrillo (mom ended up embracing the whole idea), with all its history and richness, and wore it with love and pride.
I never felt like I “gave up” Kram. I just wore Carrillo over Kram like the layering of a perfect outfit.
And…when Brian and I split up, I asked him if it would be ok if I kept Carrillo (I asked his mom too).
It had become a significant piece of my identity. I had two beautiful Hispanic (sorry…Spanish) kids with the name, and the name had been with me for almost as long as I had the name Kram, so it felt like it was mine.
So, I’ve kept it, and I’m glad I’m a Carrillo.
And a Kram.
P.S. Now that Ally is getting married…to a “Kohn” (I know, the irony is almost scary), I’m leaving her alone to make her own decision.
P.S.S. My mom would not.
First off, I’m changing this topic to “Should ALLY change her name when she gets married?” I’m super selfish like that.
(And also because I don’t believe that there’s a rule. There’s no “should” when it comes to this. It’s up to her (and him).)
We’ve wanted to write about this subject for quite a long time, and now that I actually have to MAKE A DECISION about this in the near future, it’s time to talk it out.
I love my last name. I identify with it. I like having the same last name as my family.
I LOVE that my initials are ABC (just like my Daddy).
And with all of that said, it seems obvious that I should keep my last name when I get married to Mike.
I never even thought about this when I was growing up. Sure, Alexandra Taylor Thomas or Alexandra DiCaprio sounded fun, but I never actually thought that I’d have to change my name someday. My folks never brought it up with me or anything (which I now resent you guys for because I feel a little blind-sided).
Over the past decade, I think I’ve always assumed that I’d keep my name.
But now that it’s HERE (which is awesome), I have to think about what to actually do.
Even though I love my name and initials, I also want to have the same name as Mike (which is Kohn).
And, even more than that, I want the same name as my future kids.
(I don’t even have children yet, and they’re already making shit complicated…)
Mike says he’s completely supportive of whatever I decide, which is ABSOLUTELY NO HELP AT ALL.
So, I’ve been compiling a mental pro and con list about what I should do.
PROS OF CHANGING MY LAST NAME:
– I’ll have the same name as Mike… everyone will know we’re Mr. and Mrs. (Though, with our luck – and the fact that we look vaguely similar – people will probably just assume that we’re brother and sister… or at least cousins.) We can be introduced as Ally and Mike Kohn, not Ally Carrillo and her husband Mike Kohn. It’s a symbol of us as a couple, as a team…
– I’ll have the same name as our kids. Now I know our future children don’t HAVE to have just Mike’s name, but I don’t want to hyphenate. Carrillo is long enough on it’s own – I’m not adding four more letters to it. I think that’s just mean.
– Speaking of length, Mike’s name is half as long as mine. My full name is Alexandra B Carrillo, and that is one long ass name to fill in on standardized test sheets. I loose valuable test time filling in name bubbles! Plus, I’d be able to cut my email address in half, and spelling it out for people would be way easier…
CONS OF CHANGING MY LAST NAME:
– I won’t be ABC anymore! ABK just doesn’t have the same ring to it… If Mike would just change the spelling of his last name to Cohn, this wouldn’t be an issue…
– I’ll have to change all of my online accounts. I know, that seems like a silly thing to say, but damn if it isn’t a pain in the ass. I mean, on top of changing my driver’s license, I have to change my Facebook URL!
– I have perfected the Alexandra Carrillo signature. I’m proud of my signature. Learning a new one makes me feel sleepy. (It’s a lot of effort…)
– I like that my name is Spanish.
– Yes, most of these CONS are silly and stupid, but this one is real – and the one that matters: I have an indescribable, irrational, overwhelming fear that I’ll loose part of my identity. Again, this seems foolish – even as I write it – but it’s a strange, lonely feeling thinking that I won’t have Carrillo attached to the end of my name. I know that I’ll still BE a Carrillo, but still.
I tell myself to listen to my gut, but my gut is as indecisive as my brain.
And so, to sum up, you all decide for me.
YOU HAVE ELEVEN MONTHS (!) to get your pro and con lists in.
PS: While were at it, tell me whether or not I should work during my first year of Graduate School, and whether I should cut my bangs again. These are all super important things I need to think about.
PPS: Maybe I should just change my last name to INDECISIVE… but that’s even longer than Carrillo…
I’ve been a good boss for most of my career…but I was really lousy at it when I first started.
My first chance to step into a supervisory role was when I worked at the Jewish Community Center in Denver as their Children and Youth Director. I was in my early twenties…and I knew nothing about being a boss.
During the school year I ran children’s programs for kids in elementary school. Programs like vacation camps, before & after school programs and specialized classes like woodworking, and craft making on weekends. I had a small staff to actually teach/supervise kids in these programs (although I learned how to teach kids to build a mean birdhouse) but most of my responsibilities focused on the administrative side of the department. I wasn’t really anyone’s boss for these programs…I was more like a coordinator who ran around setting up rooms, printing out worksheets and making sure supplies were on hand.
During the summer months however, I was in charge of a 25 acre summer day camp, complete with a full swimming program, horseback riding, arts & crafts, music and tons of sports activities….and I had to supervise about 40 young college-aged staff who were counselors, wranglers, and program specialists for more than 200 campers.
It was during these summers that I discovered I knew nothing about being a boss. I could fill out P.O’s (purchase orders), work with the maintenance staff to get the facility in order, make sure we had all of the supplies we needed, and even figure out how to “lease” over 2 dozen horses for the season…but I had no idea what it meant to supervise or lead my staff through the course of a summer camp program.
I was terrible.
I thought the word “boss” meant that I had to “boss” everyone around! I yelled incessantly. I yelled at my staff, and I’m embarrassed to say…I also yelled at the kids.
I went through the summer yelling and bossing, and basically bullying everyone around to get them to do what I thought should be done.
I had no idea what it meant to actually be a boss…let alone, a good one.
And then I went to graduate school. I think it was there that I first began to learn new and effective ways to communicate. But it wasn’t until I left the JCC and started my own company and started to hire my own employees…that I started to really understand what it meant to be a boss.
I still had no idea what it meant to be a good boss…but at least I figured out that it wasn’t about yelling and bullying people to get what I wanted.
It was about leadership. About inspiring people to join me in whatever work needed to be done.
I realized after about a trillion mistakes, that being a boss wasn’t about proving that I was in charge. It was about leading the charge.
And that took time to learn.
It’s not something that I learned in graduate school however, because they don’t teach leadership in school. It was something I had to learn on my own and grow into overtime.
Moral of the story
Maybe we should teach leadership in school so that there will be a lot more good bosses out there.
2nd moral of the story
Maybe that’s something I should try to do at some point in the future…
I’ve never been a boss (officially, at least…), but I’ve had quite a few.
(One of them was my mother. That’s a different topic, though…)
I’ve had great bosses, and not so great bosses.
Bosses that I would consider friends (and family) (though I don’t “consider” my mom family… I’m sorta stuck with her…), and bosses that I’ve damned to hell (NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU, MOM).
Bosses that have inspired and encouraged me, and bosses that have scared me and made me cry in the bathroom.
(This makes it sound like I’ve had a lot more jobs than I have.)
What sets the “good” bosses apart from the “not-so-good” ones?
First, it’s the way they lead. What they do to motivate, inspire, and get shit done. The good bosses that I’ve had have made me WANT to go to work and WANT to do a good job. Because my boss made me happy to be a good employee, to go above and beyond, and to make them proud. Good bosses encourage you, and you’re better because of it.
Next, it’s the way that they manage. A good boss clearly tells you what they want from you (COMMUNICATION), what is expected, and then they let you do it. They guide, they don’t push. They allow you to do your job, because they have enough faith in your ability to do it. If you get off track, they’re watching close enough to catch it and get you back on track, but they don’t look over your shoulder all of the time, or berate you when you mess up. I think this is probably one of the hardest things for managers (in any capacity) to do, but the good bosses I’ve had have this skill down.
Last, it’s the atmosphere that they encourage and cultivate. A good boss finds the balance between working and getting things done, and having a good time. If you walk into a place and see people smiling or laughing while they’re working, it’s probably because the boss encourages that. And I don’t know about you, but I love going to a business that’s full of people that actually look like they want to be there. When there’s a boss that pushes for a positive and inspiring work environment, work is done faster and better.
At the end of the day, work is WORK, and a good boss can make all the difference between a job that’s meaningful, or one that makes you want to poke your own eye out with the corner of your pay stub…
(It’s worth noting that most jobs make you want to do BOTH of those things, but if you have a good boss, then it’s a lot easier to show up after those eye-poking days…)
I feel great.
Brian feels great.
What could be better?
It’s been six glorious months since I was lucky enough to give Brian (my ex-husband…for those who are new to She Thinks) one of my kidneys.
Following the surgery, it took me about 2 weeks before I felt good enough to move around on my own, and at 7 weeks (to the day) Matthew and I were standing on the top of Machu Picchu in Peru marveling at the beauty and the grandeur of the surroundings, and I couldn’t help thinking about how incredibly good my life was at that very moment.
At that same time, Brian was traveling in Spain with friends, having far more fun than he’d had for some time before. He was able to walk for hours, eat anything they had to offer, and drink to his hearts’ content (although I think he probably pushed that one a bit too hard for so early in his recovery). He was a bit worn out when he returned…but so were the others in his traveling party, so all in all…he did great!
It probably took him 3-4 months before his energy level started to come back in earnest, but today, he’s feeling stronger and healthier than ever.
What could be better?
I can eat whatever I want. I can drink as I always have. And I don’t have to take any drugs at all to keep my remaining kidney working or healthy. It’s doing everything it’s supposed to do all on its own…and doing it beautifully at that!
Brian has to take a handful of anti-rejection drugs on a daily basis…but he’s got them figured out so that they don’t give him any trouble. It’s just a part of his daily routine, and he accepts it as a fact of life with all of the dignity and grace you would expect from the great, laid back kinda guy he is.
My health hasn’t changed at all (which is a good thing)…but as we all hoped…Brian feels a lot better.
It’s that new feeling of health that allows him to look ahead in a way that he wasn’t able to do for a really long time. He knows now that he’ll be around for awhile. He can engage in life again. He can be a part of his kids’ lives for a long time to come. He has a future.
What could be better?
But the really incredible part of this whole thing for me is that we have something new…between us…that’s totally unique and special (even for our crazy relationship).
We’ve always been close. The best of friends. Even through, and in spite of, our divorce. But this is different.
Now we share something that’s more than just a bond. It’s a connection that is so true, so honest and so real, that we don’t have to try to explain our kind of odd and unusual relationship anymore. Not to each other…and not to anyone else. It’s just understood.
And it’s made me appreciate what I have in my life. My health. My kids. My family. My man. My friends. My time to participate as fully as I can in the life I’m so grateful to have.
Honestly, what can be better than that?
(Don’t know the Kidney A-Go-Go story? May I suggest you go here first?)
It’s funny. I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen for about thirty minutes, and I don’t know what to say.
Not because there’s nothing to say… just that I don’t know how to describe the past six months.
I wasn’t the one who had major surgery. I wasn’t the one who had to recover.
But I was there, every step of the way. And I’m here, six months later, thrilled about how awesome it’s all been.
Part of me says, “Wow, six months? Is that it?”, while another part of me says, “THE CALENDAR IS LYING AND HAS IT REALLY BEEN SIX MONTHS?”
But I guess that’s just what time (and life) tends to do…
We’ve done better than I could have ever imagined or hoped for.
(!)
My dad looks great. His new kidney is happy and healthy and seems to love it’s new home.
My mom looks great. Her other organs are enjoying the extra space. (I assume.)
I’ve been able to move forward, because I feel like I can. There’s not this big
WHAT’S NEXT
WHAT’S HAPPENING
WHATWHEREWHENHOWHUH hanging over us all.
We’re all good.
And beyond that, I don’t really think about it anymore.
In fact, I believe that Mom and Dad have stopped thinking about it, too.
This is mostly because time passes and you move on. (That’s life.)
And also because it’s so much a part of our family’s history and who we are. It’s just not a big deal.
But it’s also because our lives revolved around this event for so long… it’s nice not to be obsessed and worried about it. So much of our future was unknown, and now it feels much… clearer.
And easier.
And oh so much more peaceful.
I often forget how “odd” our situation is. How weird people think my parents are. I’m only reminded when I see the shock flit across someone’s face when I tell them our story.
Because it’s part of our “normal”. It’s not weird anymore. It was what was supposed to happen.
And you don’t question or raise your eyebrows at something like that.
You smile, stay thankful, stay happy, and live.