The small imperfect circle of white leather, with its strings on each end was meant for my six-month old to wear at his baby naming ceremony. Wearing the holy headcover and nestled in my arms, he and I stood beneath the canopy made from my father’s tallit, as he was blessed and given his Hebrew name.
Antonis was named in utero and in the Greek tradition,after his paternal grandfather. So when I aimed to give him a middle name that honored my father’s memory and the Jewish tradition, the Greeks freaked. They believed I was sabotaging their tradition. Hence, the two different birth announcements.One for the Greeks, one for the Jews. One with his middle name and one without. I referred to it as a “glitch” and as something I didn’t mind, but I did. And it hurt.
Back to his baby naming: there I was in front of family and friends, holding my son who I had dressed in a powder blue poly/cotton Ralph Lauren Polo jumpsuit, and looking out at the sweet and smiling faces of those who came to celebrate my little miracle in the majestic presence of my father’s spirit, and to welcome him into our family and the community.
Antonis Asher Theodoropulos. The byproduct of my marriage to a man named “Christos” which always threw my father off a little and into a panic that each day, he was losing me, just a little bit more.
In this moment, though, I felt triumphant. Not only had I given birth and become a mother in my late 40s, but I had figured out a way to truly honor my father’s memory and wishes. I gave my child my Father’s Hebrew name, connecting them to each other. Grandfather to grandson. Jew to Jew.
