My Son’s Name

When I was 13, I begged my father for a reel-to-reel tape recorder. He refused, probably for some good reason long forgotten, but I bore a grudge for many years. No matter how hard a parent tries to provide a stimulating, fulfilling, loving environment for his child, there will be at least one thing—one unforgettable act—for which he will never be forgiven. This is a fact of parenthood. I know this because I have given my son an even greater axe to grind.

No mere tape recorder is at stake. It’s worse than that. I committed this crime the day he was born, the day I named him.

We were New Yorkers living in the smoggy foothills of Los Angeles, a city of intersections and mini-malls that begins nowhere and ends abruptly with the Pacific Ocean. It has a river that only exists for two weeks around January. In short, it’s a place best seen from within an air-conditioned car. Yes, we missed New York terribly.

My wife and I couldn’t agree on names. We’d been through two baby books with no success. She liked the biblical names; I liked the English names. We made lists, we argued, we begged and pleaded, threw up our hands in defeat, but began to lobby the next morning at breakfast. Finally, one evening as the palm trees over Sunset Boulevard glowed through a petroleum haze, I grabbed the Atlas.

We sarted in Ohio—Lucas, Howard, Kent, Gilead, Willard and Bryan. Not bad, I thought; certainly better than Ham, Zebedee or Nebuchadnezzar. But my wife shrugged, her eyes skated East toward Pennsylvania. These were more exotic possibilities — Burnside, Altoona, Wilkes Barre and Lancaster. She still wasn’t satisfied.

New Jersey offered no inspiration: Teaneck, Weehawken, Flemington and Perth Amboy? But just across the Hudson River lay New York, the city we loved and missed dearly. Why not name the boy after one of the boroughs? Staten Island was a bit long. Queens? No. The Bronx sounded more like something with four legs and horns. And Manhattan? Well, my wife placed her hand on her belly and just shook her head. Manhattan wasn’t right for this boy.

That left Brooklyn. We’d heard somewhere that one out of every 7 Americans comes from Brooklyn. One of my favorite short stories was called “In Dreams Begin Responsibilities,” written by the poet Delmore Schwartz. He describes the early courtship of his immigrant parents in Brooklyn. It was a city of auspicious beginnings. Great writers, actors, comedians, artists and politicians began here; it was a fount of talent, wisdom and ambition. Furthermore, as an immigrant, I felt sentimental about places of arrival and departure; Brooklyn meant the beginning of a new life.

In short, how could I not name my son Brooklyn? Amused, my wife started calling him Brooklyn in utero. When he was born, the nurse asked the inevitable question.

“Brooklyn,” said my wife. “Besides,” she added, “we would never live in Brooklyn!” His friends would consider the name in the context of other names in an L.A. playground—Skye, Cheyenne, Austin and Savannah. No big deal.

So young Brooklyn was born in Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, the hospital of the stars. In the nursery, between Brandon, Max and Tiffany, lay Brooklyn.

My parents received the news at a park station phone booth in British Columbia.

“Brooklyn? They named him Brooklyn?” My father could be heard stamping away from the telephone. It took him weeks to recover from the shock.

Brooklyn’s first birthday was on the day of the Rodney King trial verdict. Fires erupted all across the city. He had just taken his first steps as ashes floated down on our porch like autumn leaves.
The next year, my wife was transferred to the New York office of her law firm. Back to our favorite city at last! But much had changed--at least, in the real estate section. We couldn’t afford Manhattan. There was, however, an affordable neighborhood with nice schools just across the river.

“My name is Brooklyn and I live in Brooklyn,” explains my son when he meets strangers. Nobody forgets his name. He likes it. He likes the bridge that comes with it, and the museum, and the botanical gardens, and, so far, he doesn’t want to change it. So far.

I’m waiting for the day he asks me for an explanation. “What were you thinking, Dad?” I’ll sputter something about Delmore Schwartz, George Gershwin, Woody Allen, Barbra Streisand, Joseph Heller and every other talented Brooklynite I can think of. Hopefully this will satisfy him.

A name should be evocative. After all, it’s the way we make first conversation with a stranger. Brooklyn’s name has always inspired curiosity. We dearly hope that we have given him a name that doesn’t cause him shame or embarrassment.

But if it does, he can always open up the Atlas.

“Brooklyn?

They named

him Brooklyn?”

My father could

be heard stamping

away from the

telephone. It took

him weeks to

recover from

the shock.