Me at 6 months.
When I was born, my parents didn’t name me immediately. Okay, I reason, I was the youngest of six and they were just a little tired and feeling uncreative. Could happen.
But then, I argue, they had NINE WHOLE MONTHS to give this issue more than a passing thought. I’m not bitter, or anything. I just keep wondering, “what were they thinking??” I don’t want to paint my parents as anything but the amazing people they were, it’s just that this whole story is a tad astounding to me, but I digress. . .
My oldest sister was into movies and thought Marilyn, as in Marilyn Monroe, would have been a good name, so that’s what she called me. Only she used the Spanish version, which sounded like “Mah-ree-leen.” The nanny we had at the time, liked the name Virginia, so she just called me that. In Spanish, of course, which sounded like”Veerr-Hee-Neeah.”
My mom, who didn’t like either name, resorted to calling me the all-inclusive “La Niña.” But that quickly became confusing, because there were FIVE niñas in our family. So she started calling the two teenagers, Las Muchachitas. This still left three niñas in the equation. (See? I can do math!) Clearly this became problematic, but as the months (MONTHS!) wore on, naming the baby was still clearly not a priority. So, I became La Nena or La Gordita or even Papita. So, a quick recap: Anyone called me whatever they wanted and everybody was okay with that.
Then “El Cocotaso*” happened. (*Cocotaso is a hard rap to the head. Usually inflicted by an angry parent or sibling with a closed fist, but that’s not important right now.)
My mom took one of the muchachitas and the other niñas to a local fair, leaving Me/Mareeleen/Veerheeneeah with the nanny for an afternoon.
In Cuba, mosquito netting was a comfort requirement in all homes, but you wouldn’t want to smother the baby, so my crib had built in netting around the sides and it had a lid with the netting also.
The quick version: I was crying. Nanny picked me up and her stomach pushed the crib back against the wall, causing the crib lid to fall, landing squarely on the top of my head. (I know. I know. This explains so much.)
The terrified nanny grabbed a bottle and quickly shoved it in my mouth before I had time to catch my breath and scream, effectively blocking my air flow and causing my eyes to roll back in my head. Obviously I don’t remember all this. (I was four months old, for goodness sake!) This is a family story but because it’s about me, I know the details well.
My oldest sister, Ofie, responded to the cries of distress coming from the nanny and screamed – in her best Drama Queen voice – “YOU KILLED HER!” To which the freaked-out nanny responded by shoving the baby (me) into my sister’s arms and running screaming from the building. I guess finding good childcare was a problem back then, too.
The quick-thinking cook, who heard all this commotion called a neighbor to go fetch my mom, who then called the doctor. While waiting for him to arrive, the (devoutly-Catholic-to-the-point-of-superstition) cook pleads with my mom to pray to **Santa Marta and make promises to her.
(**In English, St. Martha was the sister of Mary and Lazarus, who is known for being all worried and distracted over serving dinner for Jesus while her sister Mary sits at the feet of Jesus. According to www.catholic.org, she is the patron saint of servants and cooks (Hey! I cook!). Who knew?)
Pretty sweet baptism announcement, no?
So, my distraught and slightly hysterical Mom makes a promise to the virgin-of-the-day, Santa Marta, (I’m not saying I condone this, you understand, I am just relaying the story) that if the baby is okay, she will name her Marta.
So they finally got around to baptizing me in October (I was born in May) as “Marta Maria Verdés y Perez-Puelles.” And the rest, as they say, is history. . . or is it?
Fast forward a few years and add Coming to America.
In English, Marta has an “h.” Martha? I bristled against this immediately. I’ve just lost my home, are you telling me I’ve lost my name, too?
I quickly learned to spell it out. “T- A – no H.” It was an uphill battle against the Irish-Catholic nuns (sigh). They could roll their R’s with the best of them in that inimitable Irish br-r-rogue, but couldn’t wrap their brains around a hard consonant sound. So my name came out sounding like “Mar-r-r-fa.” As if assimilation wasn’t difficult enough.
Paseo de Marti. Havana. Cuba
My close Cuban friends called me Martica and eventually just Marti. That stuck. Most of my close friends still call me Marti. (I like to look at maps of old Havana and see Paseo de Marti written right on there.
My sister, Alina, calls me Martilla (or Little Hammer, which I use when producing our short family films. that’s why they say “A Little Hammer” Film).
My cousins in Cuba still call me Marta Maria or La Primilla (the little cousin – what is UP with all these diminutives?) With the exception of an aunt who calls me Martona – Big Marta. I suppose if I were a biker-chick that might be appropriate, but I’m NOT. So, don’t even go there.
I am still having a sort of identity crisis. Different people call me different things. (For example, Eric calls me, Honey.)
But I will tell you this: that I answer to Marta NOT Martha. Never Martha – still feeling the assimilation pain on that one, but I’ll forgive you the first time.
Or you can call me Marti, all my friends do. The nieces and nephews call me Aunt Marti or Auntie M. My Spanish speaking friends call me Martica and there are four people on the planet who call me Mom.
You can call me any of those things.
Just don’t call me . . . late for dinner.
Marti,What a delight to read … again … and it brings back memories . . . maybe naming you took a while, but I can see that they did not waste any time (as it was done with all Cuban babies) for the famous “kikiriki” perfumed with agua de violeta rusa … Agustin Reyes! Adorable! 🙂
I wish you well 🙂 Melek
“From our ancestors come our names, but from our virtues our honors.”~ Proverb
Melek -You totally pegged the “kikiriki” with violetas! I just realized after I posted this that my son, Adam (21) is wearing his hair the same way right now. For the record: I hate it. It’s just so much cuter on a sweet smelling, nameless Cuban baby. =D
i would also like to add that for a short time you were known as Bob to a high school drama class with 15 boys in full make-up!love<
adam
p.s. i'll grow it back out…
Omigosh! You were such a cute baby!!!
My name is…My name is…
Name confusion must be an “M&M” thing!
OMG, you could base an entire book on that story. I love that story. Four months? Crazy Cubans.
Are you slamming the Irish????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????It if were not for alcohol, as I said before, we would rule the world, including CUBA! I am getting lost in my life between the Cubans and the Italians! The Irish must be good for something? Wearing green?
But what will your grandchildren call you since you are so opposed to “Grandma” and “Abuela”??Ay caramba. Maybe we should just have them call you “Bob” like the HS Drama Boys. 😉
Love you Bob!
Rei-Not all of us can catch SHADY references like that. 😉
P.S. 20 Points if you can get to Kevin Bacon from there!
What a great post! I’ve had a similar one brewing in my head for a while now but haven’t had a chance to write it out (for goodness’ sake – my mother still calls me “el bebé”… I’m 38! lol!)
Great story! GREAT NAME! 🙂 I refuse to respond to Martha, too. It is a COMPLETELY different name to me.My nicknames: Martica, Martuca, Martine (all in Spanish), and Mart (in English).
Great Story!At least you have a story. See it all worked out for the best.
Lys
What a great birthday post and such an interesting story. I enjoy reading your blog so much. Teri
Typical Cuban parents LOL Gotta love it :)Great story–as usual !
Thank you, Martica, you give me such pleasure when I read your stories, what a gift you have, God bless you, this is the most interesting and amusing story I have read in a long time, so much of our Cuban heritage is portrayed in it, our “chispa” and “sabor” all come through…love and blessings to you and yours.
Thank you MARTA for the posting. I am MARTA, no”h”please,m-a-r-t-a, yes, it is spanish for martha, but no H. Martica to my family (and a certain American high school boyfriend who thought it was a hoot when my parents called me to the phone) even though I try to tell them that, at 52, they should now switch to Marta.Love your story; really appreciate the love for life, your family and your culture(s), Cuban and American, that you write about.
Marta, on a sad day like this you made me laugh and I was able to forget about at least for a while all the problems that we as Americans are facing.I love your story. But I love more the fact that you and I were Baptized in the same Church. About that? Something else we have in common.
Thank you Marta for making my day!
God Bless.
Martica!!! I love your posts. You have such humor in your writing. Thank you for sharing this wonderful story.
Funny! Thanks for sharing, Martica
I loved this! I love how you express yourself, and so much of what you write/blog about resonates with me. My name story is noteworthy too: My parents had decided (before I was born, mind you) that if I was a girl they would name me “Margarita.” There was no question about that. However, it seems that among Cuban Catholics back then it was common to give the child a second name, that of whatever saint it was the feast of? So I was born on December 23rd and that’s the Feast of Saint Victoria. Well, my mother said the name would be Margarita Victoria Rivero Martinez. When my dad went to register my birth, along without my mother, he registered me as Victoria Margarita Rivero Martinez because he thought it sounded better. “No worries,” he said to my mother, “we’ll call her Margarita.” In Cuba, my name WAS Margarita, and everyone called me that. But in 1961 when I came to Miami alone via Pedro Pan, not knowing a word of English, I was suddenly called “Victoria” by everyone. I kept trying to explain that Victoria wasn’t my name, but again and again I was told that Victoria was my LEGAL name. To make a long story short, the Victoria stuck and now I’m called Victoria, Vikki, Margarita, Maggie, or Tita — the latter by my nephews and nieces and their children, who were told I was “Tia Margarita” and as babies they babbled “Tita.” The “Tita” stuck to this day. Thanks again for your wonderful story/blog post and for making me identify so much with it! 🙂
This is a great story! I think Marta is a lovely name but to me you’re still Marti from high school days and I have trouble switching. It took me years to adjust to our son evolving to “Ted” from “Teddy”!
I thoroughly enjoyed reading your essay! Very nicely written! 🙂
Funny story, except it’s "cocotazo."
OMG! You had me in stitches…..great story of a real Cuban drama. BTW/ I also had one of those baby crates that were mosquito proof. I was in there so long they had to put a "pestillo" on the lid to prevent me from standing up and holding the lid with my head. LOL Thanks for sharing.
awwww. I love your blog, Martica!!
A girl I knew said if you stand in the middle of Miami and yell "ita, ito" everyone will turn around! Martica, Glorita etc,,, lol!
I love it …as a daughter with no name at birth, named after the date I was born (Teresa for the 13th) and a reused middle name ( Maria same as my older sister) and being both a Nina and a muchachita and a mother named Marta!!!!
I was baptized Maria Eugenia because my mother dreamed the name. As a child I was called by my full name only by my father’s family, who, as most Cubans, preferred the compound variations of Maria, and there was already a cousin named Maria Elena. My mother’s family called me Mary (pronounced Ma-ree), or Marita. My brother, who could not pronounce Maria Eugenia, called me Ñeña. Then, a few of my mother’s relatives picked up on that and started calling me Ñeña, or Ñeñita, too. All that came to a stop when I came to the U.S. and I became forever more Maria. I hate it, and so many people have sung to me the song from West Side Story I now have trouble working up a smile when I hear it. My middle name, Eugenia, as pronounced in English, doesn’t sound as regal and beautiful as in Spanish, so that was never an option. My husband calls me Honey, my kids Mom, and my granddaughter “M” (love this!). Now, at 60, I’m resigned to Maria and I’m secretly hoping M catches on.