23PowerHow to Have More of It in One Easy(ish) Step
In kindergarten, I was convinced that my parents had accidentally misgendered me. I had been given the most Irish-Catholic name a young Jewish girl could be handed: Erin. It literally means Ireland in Celtic—like the punchy saying “Erin go bragh” (“Ireland forever”). However, I didn’t know this at the time. All I knew is that in my Jewish preschool, I was surrounded by boy Aarons in kippahs (the Jewish head coverings that resemble coasters). I had never met a girl named Erin. I didn’t know that it was kosher to spell it that way. And it was utterly unclear why my parents would give me a boy’s name.
I was told with great pride that I had been named after my deceased grandfather, a man named Aaron. My mother would tell me the brave tale of her father’s solo escape from the Nazis from his home in a shtetl in Poland. How he escaped the Nazis only to be captured by the Russians, and sent to a labor camp in Siberia. Toiling in freezing temperatures and growing weaker by the day, Aaron escaped the labor camp and made his way on foot across the war-torn landscape. Aaron had only a sixth-grade education, but traded his skills as a tailor in exchange for food and shelter along the route back to Poland. After a harrowing pilgrimage across Europe, he returned to his small town to discover that his entire family had been murdered ...
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