My name means “beloved.” I’ve always put great stock in the power of names—of meaning supplemented by the great memory of tunes we don’t know, but dance to all the same. Growing up with stories of the apostles and their varying name-changes, I don’t see how I could think differently.
My mother is a song, my little sister the Emerald Isle; my father is legally the mercy of God but chose to be free. “Friend of the sea” is a family name, even though my family is likely closer to being friends of the air. Another family name can mean both “little beauty” and “water nymph.” But I’m the only “beloved” in the near branches.
I imagine the great family tree often, its roots plunged deeply into Eastern Europe. Or all of Europe, really; but recent memory is filled with tales of recent flights, so Eastern Europe is what I imagine. I’m never sure if that thick trunk I see is anything more than the ghosts of tales of ancestors, or if the branches start at my grandparents. It’s hard for me to imagine something I haven’t experienced—and sometimes hard to remember things I have. I imagine the trunk is all those people I heard about but never knew, and my family starts with the branches.
If I had to pick a meaning for my family, to have a collective name, it would be something along the lines of “memorable.” Maybe Mneme, or Oroitz. That’s the one thing you can say about my family: people never forget us, for good or bad. For me, people love me easily—just like my name implies. But to love someone easily is to hate them just as easily. People are never lukewarm in their feelings for me, and they never forget me.
For the purpose of these stories, I need a new name. Something that suggests a trip down memory lane, but without invoking a Doris Day song. In the spirit of those shifting apostles, I’ll call myself Viatrix—the traveler. 1
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