She Thinks

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.

As we just celebrated Mother’s Day, Ally and I thought it would be appropriate (and nice) to think about what my mother’s (and her grandmother’s) have taught each of us.  My mom…Del, and my “other mother”…Stella (Brian’s mom), both died within the past two years.

Both of them were a big deal in our lives.

And , both of them taught us a lot.

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I was incredibly lucky to have these two very dynamic mothers in my life.  Both women taught me more by example than through any form of lecture or instruction.  Neither was the type of woman who demanded or directed, but instead encouraged me, held my hand in good times and in bad, and helped guide me toward becoming the woman I am today.

(So if you don’t like me…blame them)

Ahhh…but it’s not that easy… Damn it.

I know I have to take responsibility for who am I (which is one of the things they both taught me).

Damn it.

But they also taught me all kinds of other things, like…

It’s important to become an independent woman:

My mom taught me that independence was about developing your own opinions and being able to stand on your own two feet and take care of yourself, even though (ironically), she was happiest in her dependence on my dad.

Stella taught me to embrace my independent spirit, and yet, don’t be afraid to lean on those who love and care about you.

Be fearless when choosing a career:

My mom didn’t worked outside the home while I was growing up, but was tireless in her encouragement of me to find a career that would challenge my mind and tap into my personal skills.  She taught me that there were many paths I could take, as long as they led in a direction that would allow me to learn and grow along the way.

Stella taught me that no matter how old you are, you can make a contribution to others through work or volunteering.  Shortly after Brian and I were married, Stella went back to work (full time) at the age of 60 in a job that required her to learn a whole new technology (automatic typewriters were just coming into vogue back then).   She was never so vibrant or as happy as she was in that job.  It helped her gain a whole new level of self confidence…and opened up a whole new group of friends that would be with her the rest of her life.

You’ve got to ENJOY your children:

My mom taught me to be a disciplinarian (good manners were a must!) but not to forget to have fun with my kids.  She believed that humor built the strongest ties (with your children…or anyone for that matter).   And spending any time with her…meant a time filled with stories and laughter…and fun.

Stella was also a stickler for good manners, but taught me that there was always time to play a game, work on a project or sing a song with your kids, and if it didn’t seem like you had the time…it was up to you to figure out a way to find it.

Love completes you:

My mom loved her family more than life itself…but she had only one true romantic love.  My dad.  She taught me that love completes you, but be cautious and judicious about who you love.

Stella taught me to be open to love people of all ages, and from every walk of life.  She truly loved her friends and family, and more often than not…her friends became her family.

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I know that a day doesn’t go by without some life lesson becoming apparent that I learned from one of these two mothers.

They added so much to life and I miss them more than anyone could know.

And luckily, I now have another mother in my life who offers me all of the love and encouragement I could ever hope for (thank you Mary!).  And…I continue to learn from her as well.

What a lucky woman I am to have such wonderful mothers in my life to offer me such wisdom.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mom – Del, to Stella and to Mary.

Thank you for all the lessons you’ve taught me.

In order to answer this question I found myself walking around my house looking at all of the “stuff” I own and asking myself if I thought one thing or another  was the most important.

I knocked lots of things off the list right away.  Electronics, clothes, shoes (come on…I like ‘em but I’m not that shallow!), furniture, bake ware….ya know, all the stuff that sits in and on cabinets and closets throughout the house.

And then I thought about my artwork.

The oil painting hanging over the couch in my office was my first piece of art worth more than $100 and I do love it.  It’s a beautifully done oil painting of flowers in an exquisite frame.  It is the most beautiful painting I own.   But truthfully, it’s not even close to being the most important thing I own.

In addition to the painting, I now have 3 amazingly beautiful sculptures that Brian has given me since we separated (I know…don’t even get me started) that I certainly would make a point to grab and put in my car if I was told that I had 15 minutes to gather my possessions before my house were to blow up.  But again…when it comes down to it, they aren’t the most important items I own.

So then I thought of all of the sentimental stuff I have.

Obviously, the first thing I thought of was our family photos.  After Brian and I split up, I was the one who declared that I would be the keeper of the family photo albums (of which there are probably 20-25) and I have them neatly stacked on top of each other on storage shelves in the basement.  Not that I don’t love to look through them, and cherish all of the pictures/history/memories in them…but the reality is that they “live” in the basement.  So in all honesty, how can I proclaim them the most important items, when they gather dust in the bowels of my house 99.9% of the time?

Jewelry?  I do now have some amazingly beautiful and sentimental pieces, and I would be absolutely heart sick if I ever lost them…(like a necklace that was my mom’s and another from Ally, a watch from my grandmother, earrings from Brian and a bracelet from Matthew) but I just can’t elevate any one of them to the status of “most” important thing that I own.

So how about books?  There are a few (not many as I’m not a voracious reader like the other members of my family) that have shaped my life.  They influenced the way I look at the world.  They occupied hours of my life by taking me to places and times I’ll never visit.  They broadened my mind.  But they certainly are not the most important things in my life.

So what the hell could it be?

It’s my dogs.

We could get into a philosophical argument as to whether or not our pets are our property or chattel?  But the reality is…that they (there are 4 of them now) are the most important “things” in my life.

I don’t treat them like things.  I treat them like pets.  That I love.  And cherish.  And care for.

And when it all comes down to it…if my house were on fire, the ONLY thing I would run in to rescue without thinking about it twice…would be my dogs.  The rest…while important to one degree or another…are just not the most important things in my life.