Rhetoric of Fear The Death of the California Dream Health Care in Perspective The Discipline Leave No Child Behind No Daddy, No! Unconditional Equal Justice under the Law Thank God I Am Not A Woman Infallible "Don't ask, don't tell" Thou Shalt Not Kill Irreconcilable Differences My Will Positive Reinforcement Changing My Name After Sixty Years Copyright © 2000-2009 Thomas E. Rosenberg. All right reserved. Essays may be reproduced with written permission. tomr@inaword.org

The elimination of negative words brings clarity to speech Changing My Name After Sixty Years! My parents left Nazi Germany in 1938, when I was six and my mother several months pregnant. They arrived in America with lot of baggage - guilt over deserting loved ones, anger over losing their home and business, and a fear of anti-Semitism. Shortly thereafter, whether out of fear, or a desire to assimilate, or a combination both, they legally changed our name from Rosenberg to Ross. My parents were different from the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island and had their names changed by an immigration bureaucrat. They voluntarily gave up their identity and a measure of pride for an Anglicized name. As a boy, the name Ross became hell. To the kids in my Bronx neighborhood, the name suggested that I was hiding my Jewish and German ancestry. These kids knew a sheenie when they saw one. The desire to be accepted dominated my early life. I've often asked myself what might have been had our family kept the name, Rosenberg. In the fifties, I doubt if Tom Rosenberg would have been accepted as a pledge by a waspish fraternity. He probably would have pledged a Jewish fraternity or had the self-confidence and conviction to ignore the conformist Greek system altogether. During the Korean War, Tom Rosenberg might have joined the Marines to serve his adopted country. Tom Ross joined the Marines in search of an identity. Tom Rosenberg might have married a Jewish woman, stayed in the east, and had closer ties to his family. Only after I moved to San Francisco, married and became a father, did I begin to acknowledge my Jewish heritage. My first wife, a liberal Methodist, insisted that I stop running away from Judaism. Our kids were raised like many kids of an interfaith marriage. We did Christmas. I occasionally took them to temple on the High Holidays. On weekends, skiing became a higher priority than religious services. I rationalized that the majesty of the Sierra was enough of a spiritual experience for my kids. As adults and parents they accept the lack of religion in their childhood, but feel they missed out on a sense of culture and heritage. I decided to return to my roots after my novel, Phantom on His Wheel, was accepted for publication. I had worked on fiction for some thirty years. As the rejections piled up I often asked myself "What if . . . ?" I told my children first. We were in a restaurant celebrating Phantom's forthcoming publication. They had just toasted my tenacity as a writer. "I'm changing my name back to Rosenberg." My voice cracked. " I want to be remembered by the name I was born with . . . " After a moment of reflection, they smiled, leaned over and hugged me. "The political climate- the initiatives attacking social services for immigrants, affirmative action, bilingual education - make me proud of being an immigrant," I explained. What I meant was that the discrimination and stereotyping so evident today reminded me of the time in my youth when I ran away from Judaism, a time that I was ashamed to share with them. Those memories were to dog me as I proceeded to tell others about my decision. My second wife and I belong to Temple Sherith Israel in San Francisco. Although we rarely attend services other than on the High Holidays, I wanted to share my decision with our Rabbi. He was surprised that I came from Germany. Repeating the story brought back the shame I felt over my years of denial. "Have you thought of taking a Hebrew first name?" the rabbi asked. He must have seen the shocked look on my face. It said, are you suggesting that I become more religious? Become more Jewish? "What's involved?" I asked hesitatingly. "The ceremony is very simple and private, for family and friends. You would make a few remarks about why you have selected your name and than I will say a blessing. We would do it in the sanctuary before the regular service. During the Shabbat service I would have Hilary light the candles and ask you to lead a responsive reading. It will make you feel more a part of the temple." After months of sharing my decision with family and friends, months of intense introspection, it still took awhile for me to grasp the significance of what the rabbi had proposed. He saw my name change as more than regaining my identity. This was a moment to renew my commitment to Jewish ideals. More important, this was a chance to give my children the positive reinforcement that they had missed. To stand before them in a temple and endorse my heritage would become even more important to them in later years by reinforcing their sense of identity. A few months later my family and a few friends gathered in the temple sanctuary. I stood on the Bimah in front of an open ark. Before me stood my children, holding their children. I had scribbled a few notes for my remarks but felt too emotional to use them. I held on to the lectern for support and winged it. "Every time I step into a temple, I'm reminded that Judaism has survived for 4000 years. It's survived because Judaism is a positive religion. "My parents, your grandparents, changed their name out of fear. I'm changing it back out of pride. I chose the name Tikvah because it means hope."