Hoong Yee Lee Krakauer & Hoong Wei Lee Speicher

The only little girl I knew who had a name as odd as mine was my sister, Hoong Wei Lee.

Believe you me there were not too many other kids in P.S. 179, the Lewis Carroll School in Fresh Meadows, Queens with names that barely fit on the attendance cards, those long dry, skinny boxed things where a name like Lori (there were two in my class) or Fern would sit prettily like a blue curl.

The article in the New York Times today noted that the practice of adopting names that sounded more American to “speed assimilation, avoid detection, deter discrimination” has almost disappeared.  Ethnic identity has acquired cachet, a potential asset and cultivated pride within the cultural community.

I doubt any of this crossed my parents’ minds the day they found themselves wandering the streets of Flushing looking for a fortune teller.

“You are the Number One Daughter and you are the Number One Son of your families.  That is very very lucky.”  the fortune teller looked at my mother and father and smiled,  “Your firstborn child in America will be a healthy baby boy.”

My mother and father gasped with joy.

The fortune teller looked closely at my mother’s palm and said,  “How interesting!  This baby will be born on your birthday, under the sign of the ram and in the year of the ram.  A double good fortune!”

At this point, I am sure my mother was eager to start knitting blue baby things,  my father’s mind engineering a red egg party to celebrate.  But wait, the fortune teller was busting to share another fax from the future.

“This baby who is twice blessed to be your Number One Son born in America and on your birthday,”  he waited for his words to fall upon their ears,  ” – is destined to do great and wonderful things.  Choose his name wisely.”

Several months later, sometime in the evening on her birthday, my mother told my father,  “It’s time.”   Minutes past midnight, I was born.  A girl, arriving late, and named forever after some famous dead warlord general.

Change my name and mainstream?  Become more American?  What is more American than that?

OK, I admit there were many times I wished for a name like Suzy Wong, something short and somewhat familiar to people instead of trying to explain how I got my name.  Things did not get easier for me when I married Seth and became Mrs. Krakauer.

“Mrs. Krakauer?  You’re not Mrs. Krakauer, you’re just trying to cut the line.”  Little old ladies waiting for the butcher to slice their brisket in Rockaway would glare at me.  I may not have looked like Mildred, my Jewish mother-in-law but brisket or no brisket, I was  Mrs. Krakauer.

I think names are magical and powerful.

They are spells that evoke a sensory image of a person that begins once you say their name.  Or, in subtle ways, they can challenge you to fulfill the destiny of that name.  I struggled with my name and my desire to mainstream and become like the rest of the kids I grew up with.  In doing so I believe I weakened the power of my name by not honoring it, whispering it and hoping I would not have to repeat and spell it for someone.  Not so anymore when I see names like YoYo Ma, Rene Zellweger and Arnold Schwarzenegger.  Did any of them think about changing their name?  I don’t think so.

I love my big, long twist turn blink name. It is exuberant. Unapologetic. Hintfully mysterious. Hard to ignore. Unmistakeable. Me.

Now, can I really live up to the fortune teller’s prophecy?  Outside of the studded armor and great riding boots which I would love to stomp around in, I am not sure how to live like a warlord general but I try everyday to live up to the story of my name and who I am.

Mrs. Krakauer.

What comes to mind when you see that name?  Of course, I think of Mrs. Irvin Krakauer (Seth’s mother, Mildred) and I think of Mrs. Samuel Krakauer (Seth’s grandmother, Anna).

Now I am Mrs. Krakauer, too (married to Seth, a nice Jewish boy from Rockaway).  But you can call me Hoong Yee.

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Hoong Yee

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