Loath though I am to admit it, the similarities between me and the Oscar-winning actor Mahershala Ali are few and far between. I, for example, don't have a superhumanly handsome, infinitely watchable face, complete with what I suspect might be the kindest eyes in the world. Nor do I have an Oscar, so that's another disparity. And a bit of a blow to my self-esteem, if I'm honest. There is, however, one thing - one talent, even - that I believe we do share. A skill carefully honed from years of experience. It’s the near-constant readiness to deflect tiresome responses to our names. This will usually take the form of a smile (or perhaps a chuckle when we're in an open-hearted mood) - polite enough to put people at ease, but never so hearty as to convey genuine mirth.
Anyone who has a name that veers even slightly to the edge of typical (where they live) knows whereof I speak. The comments, the questions, the quizzical looks, the breezy mispronunciation followed by immediate bristle if you gently offer a correction.
Years ago, my friend Rachel and I developed a theory about how people with ‘unusual’ names approach first encounters quite differently from their familiarly-named counterparts. Rachel's boyfriend is called Ieuan (he pronounces it Yay-an) and we noticed that the way they introduce themselves is subtly, but crucially, different. Rachel can introduce herself speedily, and in a totally relaxed way. Nothing could shake her confidence in the fact that once she's said her name, they will know what it is, and that'll be the end of it. Say the name one time, with as much or as little eye contact as you see fit, job done. Ieuan on the other hand, introduces himself in the same way that I do: quite slowly and deliberately, with an almost eerie amount of eye contact. We both make a great first impression, as you can imagine. But the thing is, if you have a potentially-unexpected name, you have to make that extra effort at the beginning because otherwise you'll find yourself in the awkward netherworld of 'What?' 'how do you spell that?' or - my personal favourite - the Starbucks approach: just guessing what you said with wild abandon. Our theory is that people with unusual names are more likely to be patient, because it's something we have to practice, to lovingly tend to like a houseplant on a daily basis. The kind with a name that nobody can pronounce.
Some of us come up with little strategies which we'll put out there as soon as is humanly possible. The first time I met my friend Harshitha, we’d both been living in America for less than a week, and she immediately likened the pronunciation to the chocolate brand Hershey's before I'd had a chance to butcher it. She provided a familiar point of reference to make me feel at ease. Every single time she's met a new person in this country, she's tried to proactively counter their discomfort, and it makes me burn every time I think about it.
But I totally do it too. When I meet a new patient at the hospital, I'll often make a pre-emptive strike, and say 'It's a bit like a cat saying yeah!' I know that's not particularly strong, but I find it preferable to the equally regular alternative which is 'Oh yeah, no I know. Don't worry! It's a tricky one to hear the first few times.' I think my favourite mishearing so far was Cadillac. "Like the car!" Sure. Whatever.
Even the ridiculous name of this newsletter is a tiny, joyful reclamation of how wearisome I used to find it when people say things like 'Katch her if you can!' or 'Katch a ball!' with the deeply unnecessary flourish of miming a throw. Which I would then ‘catch’. Because people with unusual names get used to trying to put people at ease.
And my name isn't even that unusual! Most people have some frame of reference for it, so I can't even imagine how tedious it must be having a name that's genuinely comment-worthy. I have a friend called Merlin, and I've lost count of the number of times I've heard him - mournfully resigned to his fate - tell people that he's named after the bird, not the wizard.
From when he was tiny, my brother always used to stay one step ahead by introducing himself as 'Josef with an F'. This seemed to be a foolproof plan until some wise and curious soul asked the inevitable: 'What, like Fosef?!'
My brother was named after my grandpa. His name (obviously) was also Josef Herman, but it wasn't always - Herman was a name assigned to him at one of many border crossings. He told us once that a guard misheard his actual name, and he just went with it, but I've no idea whether or not that's true. He was from Warsaw, so presumably had a more Polish/Yiddish-sounding name, but he never told us - or anyone, as far as I know - what it was. It’s unimaginable to me just to think 'Okay, I guess that's my name now', but then again, he also got on a boat that he thought was going to New York and ended up in Glasgow, so I think he was pretty adept at rolling with it.
In fact, my grandpa gave so little mind to what people called him, when my dad came across his parents’ wedding certificate a few months ago, he was astonished to discover that his name (Josef Moishe Herman) had been misspelled as 'Mosek Josek Herman.' I mean, can you even call that a misspelling? That's just a fully different name. It's a seemingly innocuous mistake, but maybe it wasn't.
There are two types of people who will make a comment about an unusual name. There are those who say it unthinkingly, or even just to have something to say. I've done it myself countless times, always to my immediate shame. Just the other day I met someone called Minnie, which is a name that I love, but still - like an idiot bear to honey - I said 'as in Mouse?' I mean, really. I'm truly glad that she was having none of my nonsense: without breaking my gaze, she simply said 'No.' And just let it hang in the air. I felt immediately chastened and inspired.
But then there are the people whose comments are much more unsettling, whether or not that's their intention. These are the people who say 'Where are you from?' followed by 'Yeah, but where are you really from?' I look about as exotic as a Custard Cream, and yet I'm asked with astonishing frequency where I'm 'from from' - with that first 'from' about as laboured you can get before you're fully winking. It's a bit of a mystery, though if I had to guess I'd say it has something to do with my unusually present eyebrows. The immediate follow up: 'Ok, but where are your parents from?' Sometimes that's fine, and you think they're just being a Curious George - and why not! - but other times you're alone on a train platform late at night, and maybe they're drunk, and you're not sure why they're asking, but you maybe have an idea.
Or sometimes - and we've all been there - you've just won a career-defining and culturally historic victory in one the biggest awards ceremonies in the world, and this is seen as an opportune moment for some dinkus (Jimmy Kimmel) to make a joke about what you should or shouldn't call your daughter. Not only was this a well-worn joke (and a deeply unfunny one to begin with) but then they make an auditorium full of people say your name in unison instead of the word 'surprise!' to welcome in a tour group, as though it's some sort of hilarious gimmick. Okay, maybe we haven't all been in that exact situation, but I'm sure we can all agree that it would be offensive, infuriating, and bone-achingly disappointing.
To make matters worse, among the tour group was an Asian-American woman named Yulree and her husband Patrick. Upon hearing their names, the aforementioned dinkus (Jimmy Kimmel) said to Patrick / to an audience of millions: 'See? That's a name!'
Making a joking comment about someone's name might seem innocuous to some, but it’s always more loaded than it seems. For marginalised groups, stripped of their histories and identities, names are hugely significant. During the Atlantic Slave Trade, millions of people lost their African names, and were forced to take on the names of their owners. Sorry, scratch that. Lost makes it sound like they were careless. Their names were stolen. Jews in Nazi Germany were given new surnames that were designed to humiliate them - Eselkopf, Kaufpisch, Hinkedigger, Saumagen - Asshead, Sellpiss, Cripple, Pig’s belly. (These examples are borrowed from a wonderful poem by Michael Rosen called School Visit.) My grandpa was the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust, and his family’s name - whatever it was - died with him. Years later, somebody wrote the wrong name on his wedding certificate and he didn’t care enough to correct them. Or maybe he cared a great deal, but shrugged it off with a well-practiced smile.
Children of immigrants are often made to feel embarrassed of their culturally rich names. My friend Maggie and her sister Liz moved to the UK from Taiwan when they were little. Their mother wanted them to have 'proper' English names, but didn't know that many, so named them after the Queen and the former Prime Minister.
My grandpa, when he eventually left Glasgow, went to visit a small mining village in South Wales called Ystradgynlais, and ended up staying there for eleven years. For the entire time that he lived there, he was given another new name. He went from being Josef Moishe I-Don't-Know-What, to Josef Moses Herman, to Mosek Josek Herman - to Joe Bach, which means 'Little Joe' in Welsh. This was a fond reference to his diminutive stature, but it didn't seek to diminish him. It was borne entirely out of affection, kinship, and respect, and it meant the world to him.
That's the thing about names: they matter.
Well, truth be told, my name doesn't usually matter as much, because I'm a white lady from London. Yep, from from. But even then, my dad felt it was important that I had the option of an English name, which is why my family call me Katy. ‘It’s good to have the option’ he said ‘Just in case.’ This line of thinking is desperately sad however you slice it, but it stems from the lived experience of a man who grew up in a small village with refugee parents who called him Davidl ('Little David' in Yiddish). This led to the unfortunate incident of me telling my nursery school teacher, with total, unshakeable sincerity that 'My Mum's name is Susie, and my Dad's name is Daffodil.'
Mosek Josek, Fosef, Cadillac, and Daffodil. What a dynasty. See, Jimmy Kimmel? Those are names.
The Cameo
My guest this week is Bellatrix.
She holds the titles 2009 World Beatbox Champion, 2014 UK Beatbox Champion, 2015 Beatbox Team World Champion and 2015 Beatbox Team UK Champion, and has a degree in jazz double bass from the Guildhall School of Music & Drama. Known for her work with Dizraeli and The Small Gods, The Beatbox Collective, and the powerhouse female vocal group The Boxettes, Bellatrix has just finished working on her debut solo EP.
What’s your job title/profession?
I’m a musician. I play the double bass, I write music, I beatbox and I sing.
What would you love for people to know about your work?
For my job I do loads of really varied and interesting different projects and collaborations that I’m really proud of, but people do tend to pigeon hole me. I’m that female beatboxer double bass player who crops up across various collaborative projects. Actually I’d love people to know about my own music project which is my newest and most treasured project. It does not involve beatboxing and is really different to what everyone expects from me. The first track dropped in November and the rest of the EP is coming in Spring.
What do you wish people would stop asking about your work?
I wish people would stop asking me “what’s it like being a female beatboxer?”. It’s no secret that beatboxing, Hip-Hop, the whole of music and… loads of other industries are still completely dominated by men. I have countless interviews online that one can refer to if they want to know about my experience as a woman in this male dominated industry, and it would be awesome if I wasn’t just defined by the fact that I have a vagina. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that it’s an important conversation and believe me I am deeply engaged in this conversation. But I think its also important not to chain the women who have been at the forefront of “women in something” to the “women in” part of that something. I’m actually a bangin musician, not just a bangin female musician. Thanks.
What made you/helped you to choose what you do?
Thinking about it, there was never really much choice or question involved in my being a musician. I think that I was basically unthinkably lucky to have come across a thing that was both my passion and my talent at a young age. There were for sure other factors involved, like my dad being a musician himself. And my parents always being super supportive, which I understand is a massive privilege. I mean, it’s not like we had any money, but the fact that my parents always told me I could do whatever I worked hard at meant that I had a head start.
What’s your perfect time to wake up / go to bed? (When do you actually wake up / go to bed?)
I love waking up at dawn (so in the summer this means waking up super early), as I have a passionate romance with this time of day. I can’t do this every day coz I also like to stay up till 2. Also it’s not allowed if my boyfriend is staying over.
Do you have a set morning routine?
It depends on whether I have to be anywhere, but at the very minimum, it goes roll out of bed and make a coffee, then write my morning pages (three pages train of thought whatever). I’m not allowed to look at any screens until I’ve finished my pages. Then breakfast.
What are your work hours like?
Do you ever try to create a routine for yourself or is that impossible given the nature of your work?
I am forever trying to implement routine and engage with some sort of organised human that I know must be there, deep down. The thing is, I don’t really differentiate between work and personal life. There are some things that are definitely work, like keeping my accounts in order… but that will go on my to-do list in amongst “go for a run” and “call mum”… “bass practice”, “update website” or “finish the lyrics to that song”. If I’m honest, I probably work way too much and will find myself going weeks without taking a single day off. Last July I was working 16 hour days for 28 days straight. I got really poorly at the end of that. That wasn’t very clever. Actually my new years resolution is to be seriously cut-throat about the things that I commit to. I find myself doing a lot of things for other people’s projects and having very little time to do things for myself. And time ticks on, and another year goes by that I achieve a hell of a lot of awesome things but still haven’t written my own album. So 2017 is about being really mindful of how I allocate my time.
Do you ever work with fixed goals in mind or take it day by day depending on what comes up?
I usually set myself really clear (and probably mostly unachievable) goals, and then end up doing something completely different! I do have a strong vision for what I’m doing, and find it’s important for me to set goals but I can’t work without fluidity and have to allow myself to follow whatever vibe is wanting to happen in the moment.
What inspires you?
I find it inspiring when people think and behave in a way that exceeds what could be expected of them. I find that all of us tend to operate within our own personal boundaries that are decided by the culture we grew up in, the people around us, and ultimately held in place by us believing them. These boundaries are complex, and completely different for each person, and I find it inspiring when people make a decision that they’re not going to be fenced in any more. My mum is one of those people.
What do you do to get through days when you just don’t feel like it?
Take myself somewhere private and have a good old rant. I allow myself to say whatever I need to say. Do lots of shouting. Usually I cry. Sometimes I break things.
Do you have a go-to treat to get you out of a slump?
No but that’s a good idea. I think I should get one.
Any hot tips for the old work-life-balance conundrum?
I think I’m the last person to be giving tips in this area!
Do you have any hobbies/passions outside of work?
I’m currently learning French, and I like to pretend I’m a wild woman and go on adventures in the woods. And I like to go out dancing.
If so, how do you make time for them? Where do they fit into your day/week?
French practice is in my daily routine, just after my morning pages. It’s manageable as I only 20 mins a day, and because I’m going out with a French person. Alas, my woodland adventures are few and far between.
What’s the best piece of advice someone’s ever given you? (Or worst!)
I know this is super bate and a total cliche, but the best piece of advice I’ve been given is to follow my gut.
What’s your top tip for getting shit done?
Stop f**king about and get on with it.
What are 3 recordings that I should listen to this week?
I can’t possibly give you 3. I will give you a song from the past 5 albums I listened to:
Clap Hands - Tom Waits
Jealous Guy (Live version) - Donny Hathaway
India - Sun Ra
Um canto de afoxé para o Bloco do Ilê - Caetano Veloso
Tomboy - Princess Nokia
Check out Bellatrix's website.
Find her on Twitter, Instagram & YouTube.
Bellatrix tells the BBC about the history of beatboxing here.
Her debut single is now out! Hooray!
Some Music
This week's playlist is ever-so-tentatively devoted to the beginning of Spring!
You can listen to it on Spotify here.
A Poem
Ballad of Orange and Grape
by Muriel Rukeyser
After you finish your work
after you do your day
after you've read your reading
after you've written your say –
you go down the street to the hot dog stand,
one block down and across the way.
On a blistering afternoon in East Harlem in the twentieth
century.
Most of the windows are boarded up,
the rats run out of a sack –
sticking out of the crummy garage
one shiny long Cadillac;
at the glass door of the drug-addiction center,
a man who'd like to break your back.
But here's a brown woman with a little girl dressed in rose
and pink, too.
Frankfurters frankfurters sizzle on the steel
where the hot-dog-man leans –
nothing else on the counter
but the usual two machines,
the grape one, empty, and the orange one, empty,
I face him in between.
A black boy comes along, looks at the hot dogs, goes on
walking.
I watch the man as he stands and pours
in the familiar shape
bright purple in the one marked ORANGE
orange in the one marked GRAPE,
the grape drink in the machine marked ORANGE
and orange drink in the GRAPE.
Just the one word large and clear, unmistakeable, on each
machine.
I ask him : How can we go on reading
and make sense out of what we read? –
How can they write and believe what they're writing,
the young ones across the street,
while you go on pouring grape in ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE –?
(How are we going to believe what we read and we write
and we hear and we say and we do?)
He looks at the two machines and he smiles
and he shrugs and smiles and pours again.
It could be violence and nonviolence
it could be white and black women and men
it could be war and peace or any
binary system, love and hate, enemy, friend.
Yes and no, be and not-be, what we do and what we don't
do.
On a corner in East Harlem
garbage, reading, a deep smile, rape,
forgetfulness, a hot street of murder,
misery, withered hope,
a man keeps pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE,
pouring orange into GRAPE and grape into ORANGE forever.
This poem is from the collection Breaking Open (Random House, 1973).
You can listen to Muriel Rukeyser reading it aloud here.
Links!
A masterclass from Steve Harvey in how to respond to a name. Watch this video all the way to the end to witness the full majesty of the Obu family. They will make your day better, I promise.
I might start defining my sexual orientation as this video about how globes are made, from 1955.
An Elegy for the Library by Mahesh Rao has made me feel suitably guilty for not using (and treasuring) libraries enough. Am now determined to rectify this.
Libraries may have their idiosyncrasies, but the fundamentals of their ecosystem are universal. They are places of long breaks, of boredom and reverie, of solace and deliberation. They offer opportunities for unobtrusive observation, stolen glances and frissons, anticipation and nudging possibilities.
Tank and The Bangas give me so much joy. Watch their NPR Tiny Desk Submission here.
Ten Meter Tower is a short film by Maximilien Van Aertryck and Axel Danielson. The Swedish filmmakers placed an ad online, and found 67 people who had never been on a diving board that high before. I found the film's strangely intimate glimpse into human psychology and vulnerability totally captivating.
Daniel Maier's point-by-point analysis of The Worst Mission Statement Of All Time is a real treat.
El Sueno Americano (The American Dream - for the mugs like me who would have to look it up otherwise) is a photography project by Thomas Kiefer, who worked as a janitor at a U.S. Customs and Border Patrol 40 miles from the Mexican border for almost a decade. During this time he began to salvage - and catalog - some of the hundreds of personal items belonging to hopeful American immigrants which, as they were apprehended and brought to the facility, were seized and disposed of during processing.
The Age of Rudeness by Rachel Cusk is a thought-provoking meditation on the societal implications of rudeness and courtesy.
In most of my stories, I allow the truth to look after itself. In this one, I’m not sure that it can.
For all these reasons, the story doesn’t work as it should. Why, then, if it proves nothing, is this a story I persist in telling? The answer: because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it, and I feel that the thing I don’t understand about it — indeed the mere fact of not understanding — is significant.
This video from an open house at a school in Puerto Rico absolutely made my day.
And so did this: Our Favourite B.B. King Expressions.
And that's it! See you next week!
Love,
Katya
The Katch-Up's header illustration is by the brilliant Tamsin Baker.