It’s the beginning of August, giving me time to prepare for the birthday that will close the month for me, then open my new year. This turns my thoughts to origins, the origin of my name in particular.
In the PBS series “Rumpole of the Bailey,” the main character, a crusty British barrister, refers to his wife in the third person as “She Who Must Be Obeyed.” Then, in the TV comedy series “Frasier,” Dr. Niles Crane frequently mentions his wife Maris, but she never appears in person in the entire eleven year run.
A person with no name. A name with no person. What’s that all about?
My Grandma Weiner insisted to my mother that she would surely give birth to a boy. No one dared to question my grandmother’s authority, derived partly from her prematurely silver hair that in itself seemed to epitomize great wisdom, but mostly from her “force of nature” personality. My grandfather clearly understood this and “gave her space” as we say now.
Grandma scanned my mother’s shape during her pregnancy and decreed that the projection towards the front instead of a widening in the hips foretold a male child. My parents settled on the name Barry for their soon to arrive son, in memory of a deceased relative from Eastern Europe.
Here I am! unmistakably a girl with a delicate pink face and dark hair just long enough to twist into a curl on the top of my head. Quick thinking under pressure by my parents resulted in changing the spelling of the chosen name from Barry to Barrie, thereby avoiding the stress of dreaming up a completely new name on the spot. I was the young recipient of an androgynous name.
By all accounts, I was received as the beloved first-born child and grandchild, regardless of my gender.
When I entered elementary school, the teachers did that cruel thing that discriminated against many throughout their young years — they sat us in alphabetical order by surname. Pretty little Arlene A. always sat in front; the serenely smiling Lydia Z. sat in the last row, in the far corner; and I — the brown-haired, serious “Miss Barrie Weiner” — sat in the middle of the very last row.
In fifth grade, I began to squint at the blackboard fifty feet away at the front of the classroom. I didn’t know that I could ask someone for help, but my compassionate teacher noticed my struggles. My mother took me to Dr. Garfield the optometrist and I was fitted for glasses, one of the unlucky kids who had to adjust to a dorky new four-eyed look at the age of ten.
Kids teased me not because of my eyeglasses or my male first name but for my last name, pronounced Wee-ner like a hotdog. As I remember it, the boys were the teasers, and the girls mostly well-behaved and compliant, a 1950’s expectation for each. That didn’t bother me; it was my first name that made me self-conscious.
Having an unusual name meant for a boy — instead of a really pretty name suitable for a girl, like Danielle or Barbara Anne, Patricia or Rosemary — made me feel different from all of my laughing, high-spirited classmates and their normal looks — and names. In my teen years, our mailbox was stuffed with solicitations addressed to me to join the U.S. Marines, Navy, or Air Force, but fell short of a notice to show up at the Selective Service Board.
I’ve never met a girl or woman with my name, although I know some exist, maybe with cute spellings like Bari or Baree. I once overheard a woman in a restaurant call her friend “Barrie” and realized that it was the first time I had ever encountered a female namesake. That experience has not repeated itself. But if someone calls me “Barbie,” a frequent occurrence because the second “r” is easily changed in the mind’s eye to “b,” I promptly correct them, “I’m NOT a Barbie!”
I intentionally gave my daughter the unmistakably feminine name of Julianne Gabrielle. This satisfies me immensely. She has grown into a young woman as beautiful and gracious as the sonorous sound of her names flowing one into the other.
At this time in my life, when I am experiencing a surge of creative energy moving me on to new interests and endeavors, I am proud to be “Barrie” in name and in person. My first name has been the one unchanging fact of my identity, accompanying me through seventy-two years of life unfolding — unlike Mrs. Rumpole who was a nameless tagline to her husband, or unlike the disembodied Maris, the name and the person disconnected, spoken for but never speaking.
I am filled with gratitude for my dear parents—Rose and Jules—who, in the 1940s, confidently agreed upon this slightly edgy, distinctive name for me, retaining it for their first child unrelated to gender. And then, they lovingly supported me in growing into it and hopefully living up to it.
What’s the story of YOUR name, my friends?
You are as lovely and beautiful as your name! Really enjoying your blog!
Thank you Betsy for your enthusiastic response – I appreciate each and every one of my readers!
I never heard this story! Love your blog.I have a friend with twin daughters, Tracy and Barrie…roughly 30 years old. Both docs. Perhaps they heard of you and were inspired by your name as they too, are from NJ.
My name, no story, yet so many Lisa’s among the later Boomers.
Wow, you are the second person I have heard from who knows a female Barrie, this is big for me!
When my mom was carrying me she lived in an apartment on the 3rd floor & my dad was in the service. My mom broke her leg & it was very difficult walking up & down to the 3rd floor, especially being pregnant. So she moved in with her parents temporarily. Her parents raised animals & included were rabbits. My mom got attached to one particular rabbit & decided that if she had a girl she would nickname it “Bunny”. And so she indeed gave birth to a girl, me. And so I got labeled “Bunny”.
Thanks for the story of YOUR name, a delightful tale!
Really enjoying your blog Barrie!
Unlike you though, being given a name long before birth, I was a no name.
Being one of twin, born back in 1932, to very young parents in the South of England,twins were not expected.
WE did however arrive. There were no clothes for me, no bassinet, and worst of all NO NAME.
I think all in the heat of the moment , I got my Mothers sisters name Kathleen. Then I needed a second name, Bessie and Hilda were the aunts who washed our diapers, and so, there you have it. Kathleen Bessie Hilda.
Then I was placed in a drawer!
I won’t go on about my surname, ( another epistle)
Having been given this assignment in class, by you Barrie, it’s quite unbelievable how much you can write about your name!!! Love it.
Kathy, thank you for sharing your amazing account of your arrival in the world and the story of your three names. It may have been in England, but the surprise for a family is universal. I’m so glad you’re here – and in my class!
Very cool story, Barrie. A unique first name for a unique special person. As always, enjoyable reading!
Judy, it’s always nice to hear from you, I appreciate your comments. Hope you are having a great summer.
I have a feeling this isn’t the last time Grandma Weiner is going to show up in this blog!
How right you are! This was just a low key introduction.
I first remember you from Ashbrook & I was very jealous of your name. I thought how clever how unusual How lucky Barrie is to have such a beautiful name. Here I was stuck with a boring bland name, Ellen. Ugh who remembers an Ellen. But after whining about it to my mother she told me it’s history. My name is Esther. I was named for my grandfathers sister who was killed by the Nazis. She was one of the millions of Jews taken from their homes & just lined up & shot. My grandfather was the most important male figure in my life. We lived with my grandparents. He was a true patriarch that was loved & respected by all who knew him
An orthodox man who encouraged me to become a bat mitzvah.unusual for those times.
When our daughter was born I told my mother that we were naming her Aaron. She shook her head & said I understand why but grandpa is still alive you can’t use his name. He would be offended. So we named her Melissa Alyson. Manya Aviva. Manya was the name of my grandfathers brother & Avila was for Herbs grandfather. But in my heart it will always be Aaron for my grandfather.
I love reading your stories. I can’t wait to see them all published in a book
Barrie. A beautiful strong name A beautiful strong woman
Ellen, I am honored that you shared your important family stories with me. When I think of my grandparents, they are more real to me now than ever. We stand on strong shoulders to get where we are today. You will be hearing more about my grandparents in future posts. And I am glad to hear about yours – Grandpa Aaron.
This is a great story about your great and unique name.
My name, Diane, is unique only because I have a cousin my age with the same 2 names- Diane Joan- named after the same great grandmother. What were they thinking? It must have been the summer heat (May—August between births.)
Now when there is a get together we have have to refer to each other as D the E (elder) and D the M(middle) Our cousin Doris is D the Y when we get together yearly for our “cousins weekend” We are all about the same age so it has ended up being fun after all.
D the E, this is a delightful account of how your family managed the name challenge – thank you for adding to the conversation!
Thanks for this narrative about your name, and naming in general. My name, David, is one of the most common of the boys of my generation, and I was always one of two or three Davids in my elementary school classes. It was not until I learned that David, in Hebrew, means “beloved” that I appreciated my name. Although I know I was named after my maternal great-grandfather, the idea that, at least at birth, I was also “beloved” was comforting to me in the chaotic family into which I was born.
David, I am moved by your account of your name and what it means to you in the life you have lived. You may not have felt beloved then but you are now.
Barrie, I always enjoy reading your letters or the story in your blog. You such a great writer! Thank you for sharing this beautiful story of yours, hugs and kisses.
Hugs and kisses back to you, cousin in Arizona. Thanks for reading!
I knew a female Barrie, Barrie Cissel, at our small girls’ school in New Jersey. As I recall nobody teased her, but there were no boys at the school. As for me I hated the name Susan because it was so common, then grew to accept it. But in college if they called out that “Susan” had a phone call, seven doors would open on our floor.
Sue, I enjoyed your comment. And I remember that phone booth at the end of the dorm hallway – everyone knew if you were asked for a date!
My parents, like so many others in 1942, named me Sandra. Like all the other Sandras in my elementary school, I automatically became a Sandy. When I was about ten, however, my favorite babysitter gave me a special gift — a wall plaque adorned with the colorful painting of a deer, under which was printed SANDIE. Now I had a problem: Should I remain Sandy with a “y” or be reborn as Sandie with an “ie”?
I think the problem was solved mainly because I liked seeing my name in print! So SandIE I became, to match my plaque, and SandIE I remain, to this day. Now, that gives us something else in common, BarrIE!
Loved the piece.
SandIE, thank you for your own story and the unexpected origination of the name that you have used since then. I totally relate! Your friend, BarrIE
My parents named me Rosanna Lenora. My mother must have likes “a”s. I was named for a Rose, an Anna & a Leah. Growing up I hated my name. My friends had “normal” names like Carol, Joyce, Elaine, Janet, Sandie, etc. Later in life I liked my name. Even though it was odd in the 50s, people now say it’s beautiful. When I called people from work, I only had to say Rosanna & they knew who I was. I felt like Cher or Madona! By the way, I know 2 Bari’s who are our age. Enjoying your blog Barrie. I’m Sandie’s friend Remas.
Thank you Rosanna for signing up. You do have a beautiful name, six syllables flowing smoothly. Yes, let’s enjoy, at last, what we were given!
Thanks for your kind words Barrie.
Hey, Barrie!
Just getting to read some of your earlier posts, and happy that I did that!
Growing up in the Soviet Union, my name was very distinct – Philippe, in the French manner. It had been quite well known in earlier times, but fell out of use to such an extent that I never came across another one until we left the USSR… . I kept hearing of some, much younger Philippe’s in Leningrad here, or in Omsk there, but those were a new generation growing up to take their place next to me, perhaps some day… 😉 . I was always kinda proud of my unique name, and grateful to my mom who agreed to take it up, from a recently deceased uncle of mine on my father’s side — a big family of many siblings… .
Ultimately, I was relieved to find my name become a simple and ordinary one, when we emigrated to the West, one of many Philips. Except, not so ordinary after all — not if you look deeper into its Ancient Greek origins. It means, lover of horses. By now, I am happy both with its new/ancient meaning, and with how commonplace it is in my adopted homeland.
Lastly, perhaps a little correction for your story. Maris, of the wife of Dr. Crane’s fame, does make several appearances in the later years of the “Frasier” show after all, fierce as the breath of dragon’s fire… .
🐎 🐎 🐎 Thank you Philip for your most interesting response, sharing your own history — and your love of horses!