The Name Game

THE NAME GAME

I imagine that when my parents talked about what name was appropriate for the new baby (me), the decision had to be obvious. Manuel. Both of my grandfathers carried that old fashioned but honorable moniker. Why not one of the grandchildren too?

I doubt my mother or father knew that Manuel is derived from the Hebrew name Immanuel, which means “God is with us.” It is quite old and carries heavy religious significance. That’s fine with me. A “heavy religious significance” is better than no significance.

My mother’s younger brother was also a Manuel when he wasn’t Boze, a shortened version of Bozo. In my way of thinking (which was incorrect,) I was named in honor of Manuel “Boze” Sarmiento. I never learned why my uncle was Bozo. I knew him as Boze, and that name was cool enough for a post-pachuco era pachuco who could play Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White on a saxophone just like Pérez Prado, and who cruised the steel town grimy streets of Pueblo, Colorado in a Ford Skyliner, the world's first retracting hardtop convertible, and a ride hip enough for the man who taught me about style, attitude, and taking life one day at a time. Before Uncle Boze passed on, he served in the U.S. Army and eventually owned Sarmiento Concrete and Landscaping. His name can be found preserved on dozens of sidewalks, garages, patios, etc., that he built throughout southern Colorado.

My parents worked hard all their lives. They did what they could to provide for their sons. They held multiple jobs, worked weekends and nights, cleaned motel rooms and sold shoes door-to-door. They encouraged us to succeed and emphasized the importance of education. They were proud parents, and they expressed that pride whenever the opportunity presented itself.

There is at least one unusual product of this emphasis. My mother had only an eighth-grade education, but she knew what she had to do to get what she needed, or wanted, from any situation. She understood that to “make it” in the mid-twentieth century United States, some sacrifices were necessary. These sacrifices could be major or small. One thing she figured out – small though it may be – was that her children had improved odds of “making it” if they could slip into the controlling culture without too much hassle, as though we were as entitled as any blue-eyed, blond-haired mouthy brat. Hence, we were bombarded with books and magazines. We watched black-and-white TV programs, especially game shows. We were taught that good grades in school were important.

My mother primarily spoke English in our house, to the detriment of her sons’ Spanish speaking ability. I don’t think she made an actual decision about speaking English. She simply observed what was happening around her, subconsciously extracted whatever lessons she could, and then applied those lessons to her life and the hope she had for her children. Thus, we spoke English.

My mother came of age in rural U.S. She was bilingual, bi-cultural, strong and fierce when she had to be. She told her sons about the fight she had with a rival, and she made sure we knew she had won. More than once, she stormed out of a restaurant in protest of bad service or terrible food and wouldn’t hesitate to make accusations of racism when such accusations were appropriate. She held grudges and treated her enemies with disdain and pity.

She was a proud Mexican woman. She was also an ambitious, persevering “American” woman.

I understand now why she used the Americanized version of my name and called me “Manual” instead of the Spanish pronunciation. She thought it was necessary for my success. And I do not doubt that when she talked to her father, in Spanish of course, his name, which had become my name, rolled off her tongue with lyrical precision and with all syllables and emphasis in correct alignment, bereft of any and all name games.

Later.

Manuel Ramos