What's in a Name?
On Being Israel
Last week I went to Washington D.C. for a conference. I had never been there before and I was looking forward to going to our nation’s capital because of its rich history, and of course, for the conference as well. The Legislative Summit itself was really good. I also got the chance to speak to one of my senator’s or really, mainly his staff, and that was really informative.
However, what I really want to talk about is three instances of my name leading to some interesting exchanges.
Sam, the Uber Driver
I walked most of the time I was in D.C., taking everything in, admiring the beauty of the monuments, but some distances were too far, so one morning on my way to Capitol Hill for training, I decided to take an Uber.
The driver arrived and I got in the backseat. Uber rides are always an interesting look at human interactions. Besides the normal pleasantries, whether you talk or not depends on both the rider’s and the driver’s mood and personality. Someone has to take the initiative and the other person has to be receptive.
“Your name is Israel,” Sam says. “I saw that on the app.”
“Yeah, that’s my name,” I confirmed.
“I’m from Iran. You see all that’s going on between Israel and Iran?”
“Yeah, it’s unfortunate.”
A few days earlier, Iran had launched missiles into Israel, in response to an attack a few weeks prior. There were talks of Israel possibly retaliating and escalating the conflict even more.
“Are you from Israel?” Sam asked, looking at me from the rearview mirror.
“No, I’m from Cuba. Israel is a family name, although I do have some Jewish heritage from my mom’s side. But yeah, I’m Cuban. What do you think of the conflict?”
“Man, I think the people of Israel and Iran get along just fine. It’s the media and the government that make things crazy,” Sam said.
I agreed with him. “It keeps certain people in power, the longer these conflicts last. It’s about money and power.”
Sam then told me how he had been in the United States for over 7 years and how all of his family was in Iran. He had been working in Heating and Cooling, but lost his job unexpectedly a few months back and was now working as an Uber driver to make ends meet. I mentioned that it was my first-time visiting D.C. and he mentioned a few places that I should go visit. It was a pleasant and unexpected ride to Capitol Hill.
That whole exchange happened because of my name. A name that I didn’t like when I was a little kid. All of my friends had “normal” names, whereas I was named after a country I never even visited and barely knew anything about.
Michael, the bookseller
The next day, I left the final day’s lunch and ceremony and walked over to the National Museum of African American History and Culture.
The museum itself is wonderful and an entire post can be dedicated to each of the exhibits. It’s definitely worth a trip to D.C. alone.
After I left the museum, I grabbed a bite to eat from one of the many food trucks that were lined up on the street. It was a beautiful afternoon, a gentle breeze helped to balance to intense sun. With the weather being so perfect, I sat on a bench and peacefully ate my lunch. Once I was done, I started making my way back to the hotel. I didn’t make it too far before a man stopped me. He had a stack of books in one hand.
“Hey man! Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” I said and walked over closer. I didn’t want to stop because I knew he was going to sell me something and I was going to disappoint him, but he seemed nice and I can at least hear him out.
“I’ve been on this corner selling my books. I sold over 18,000 right here in this corner,” he says.
“That’s amazing,” I add. And it is, that’s quite impressive. That’s a lot of books sold in person.
Then he shows me his book and introduces himself as Michael. I tell him my name and he begins talking more about this book and his mission to have people talking about racism and discrimination. Of course, I knew the sales pitch was coming.
“How much is it?” I asked, knowing well that I probably can’t afford it. I’m on a tight personal budget.
“It’s $20,” and you even get a digital copy.
“I can’t afford that right now. I’m here because my job paid for my flight and my hotel, and I’ll get reimbursed for my meals. I’ve been through a lot lately financially, man. It’s been such a struggle. It’s been really hard.”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Israel. Do you know what your name means?”
I nod. He continues anyway.
“It means ‘Prince of God.’ There’s power in your words, man. You have the power of life and death in your words. Speak positive words. Speak words of life over yourself and to others you love. Don’t talk about any more negative stuff about yourself. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I thanked him for this time and shook his hand. He went back to selling his books to others. Someone else stopped to listen. I think he was about to make his 18,001 sale. Good for him, I thought as I made my way down Constitution Avenue.
Ephraim, the Israeli
Back in Topeka, I went with Jackie to a local thrift shop that’s also connected to a church. There’s also a coffee shop in the ante room of the store. While we were waiting, I noticed a guy that kept looking over my way. I didn’t think much of it because it happens quite a bit. I think I have one of those faces that seems familiar to others.
A few minutes later, the guy approaches me.
“Are you Israeli?” he asked.
It took me aback because I thought at first that he was asking me if my name was Israel.
“Umm…no, I’m from Cuba. But my name is Israel.”
“Oh, sorry. You look Israeli,” he said with an embarrassed smile.
“Well, I do have some Jewish heritage,” I said.
“A small fraction,” Jackie added.
“I see. Maybe that’s why,” he said.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ephraim,” he said, and we shook hands.
A few minutes after that exchange, he walked out of the coffee shop. As he walked away and waved goodbye, I said, “Shalom, shalom".” He said, “Shabbat shalom” to me and walked away.
I’m not Israeli, but I know how excited I feel whenever I meet another Cuban in Topeka. I get that feeling. Maybe the fact that my name is Israel and I have Jewish heritage made his day.
An Extra One for Fun
The other day I went to Schlotzky’s. No one ever knows how to spell my name. They usually spell it “Isreal” instead of “Israel.” I’m used to that misspelling of my name, but this was extra:
Isrealal? That’s a first.
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Terrific story, Israel and nice surprise ending. Wondering out of curiosity if anyone ever tried to lay a nick name on you, like Izzy or something similar? I'm glad you wear your name with the pride it and you deserve. When I was a kid, I wanted to change my name to a name that I preferred rather then the one given to me by someone else. There's a lot in a name, especially when it has meaning beyond the name. It's why I wanted to name myself "Creek Boy" although that didn't happen. Our names are part of our identity. Different cultures have different ways of naming and I was drawn to the Native American names. Indigenous people who lived closer to the earth identified much more with the natural world and I admire that.