It’s not a lot of people that get to change their names, let alone pick them. You have folks such as Madonna, Cher, male porn stars, Nazi war criminals hiding out in Africa, Prince, strippers, my ex-Flamenco dancing girlfriend, abstract symbol Prince, Nazi war criminals hiding out in South America, Bono, Ringo Starr, female porn stars, Nazi war criminals hiding out in Canada and various assorted other douchebags. Maybe the list is longer than I first thought. Still none of the above mentioned chose their name at the age of three. I did.
Shortly after I was brought to Montreal from Calgary by a social worker named Grace and introduced to my new adoptive parents , the Doctor and L, the subject of my new name came up.
Carrying a little red suitcase, like some kind of precocious Dickensian moppet, I approached my father and mother, waiting anxiously outside their apartment door. I stuck out my hand in greeting and said something to the effect of, ‘Is you the new parents then is it? Me name’s Christopher, wot’s yers?’
‘Dyess Christopher, pleased to meet you. Zis is mine wife L. und I am called Endre. Doktor Endre. Please to come in.’
It was a real meeting of the minds it was.
They dragged me off into the kitchen and started trying to indoctrinate me immediately as to my new identity. All three of them, the social worker, the new father and the new mother. I was no longer Christopher L. Silzer, forthwith I was to be called baby boy Doe until the new name was decided upon. This needed to be expedited for governmental reasons.
They first threw out at me the name Michael - in true Jewish tradition, I was to be given the name of my father’s father. I rejected this because it sounded gay to me. At the age of three I was already a homophobe. Little did I know that Michael derived from Hebrew means ‘He who is like God’. What a dumb little shit I was!
Next, they shot Peter at me. I thought about that for awhile before giving them the nod. Peter it was to be - the rock, the stone. Here it was, I could have been a God but reduced myself to a mere pebble.
So that done with, I was no longer Christopher L. Silzer, not even baby boy Doe - now I was Peter M. Gonda. But it don’t end there. Next came the add-on Hebrew moniker, just to make sure you’re a Jew, because we don’t want to have any doubt about that, especially when the Nazi’s come out of hiding to lay claims on your measly hide. That just won’t do.
And so they called me, again, after gramps, Eliyahu. For the goyim amongst you, that would be the alcoholic prophet that comes by every Passover night and drinks all the left over wine. Hey, it could be worse. A friend of mine got saddled with the name ‘Shmeriyoohoo’. Sounds like a fucking chocolate Jew drink for Christ’s sake. As if things weren’t bad enough.
