A slip of paper

A single slip of paper that can change a life. 

A piece of paper, often dog-eared and softened by time, that allows you to enter, to leave, to avoid persecution, to start a new life with someone or somewhere else. That proves that you are indeed who you say you are.

I am surrounded by documents in my professional life as a translator: a diploma or transcript that will allow someone to further their studies or qualify for a new job in this country. A handwritten birth certificate from a West African country that will allow an child to be adopted and enter the country. A marriage or divorce decree that will provide someone the ability to get the coveted green card. I even have a document hanging on my office wall that attests to my ability to understand and translate these documents.

We vest a great deal of power in these documents. My father-in-law, raised in Germany in the 1930s, had to document his Aryan descent as a school project, to prove he was worthy of a free life. My grandmother and grandfather had to have a special stamp in a passport to visit post-war Japan to help rebuild the damage we had wrought. My husband and I had to document that we were not married to be allowed to marry each other--and then had to get a document that recognized that marriage so we could cross a border as a married couple. 

In my personal life piecing together my family's history, I cherish these documents as data points that provide the structure for stories of those who came before me. Once the person named in the document has passed, the paper abdicates its power, but becomes more interesting.  

With this perspective, it is easy to see the artifices that we have created: a piece of paper determines which country you "belong" to--and the borders of that nation may well change, as they too are an artifice. Other social constructs--marriage, nationality, admission into a religion or profession--are perhaps less artificial, but equally man-made.

The problem comes when we imbue paper with too much power: when a mark on a piece of paper serves to exclude or persecute; when a missing paper deprives a person of their rights or even life. The hashtag #resistancegenealogy has emerged to remind us to be vigilant of the power we give to people and documents. Lest we forget who we come from--for there is a paper trail. 

Too much power in one document

Odd one out

Aside from my German name changes of doubled consonants that became single during the World Wars--when things German were unpopular, there are very few challenges in the spelling department in our family. Except one. Mine.

As a small child, I was called by the first four letters of my name. I could read, and I knew how to write my name when I started nursery school. My mother even etched C-A-I-T on my banana that I brought for snack. So imagine how upset 4-year old me was when Mrs. Geraloman told me my name was spelled K-A-T-E. I told her in no uncertain terms that she was incorrect, and triggered my very first parent-teacher conference--on the very first day. 

I once asked my mother where my name came from: as a second generation genealogist, she constantly told us where my red hair came from and who my brother was named after; but there was nobody with my name in the tree. One thing I did learn was that there were naming traditions, and it was usually boys who are named after a father; girls, on the other hand, often just got names that sounded pretty. My brother was already named after dozens of others before him, and my mother now felt free to name me whatever she wanted.

And so it was, when my mother went into labor with me, that she packed her new transistor radio and a book for her week-long hospital stay. It was summer, and the San Francisco Giants were clearly headed toward the playoffs--and hopefully the World Series. The phenom that season was Willie Mays. Mom was thinking Willie or William would be a good name if I was a boy, but she was still stumped for a girl's name. So she cracked open her book to read: A Crock of Gold, by James Stephens. (If you haven't read it, it's a delightful collection of Irish tales, one of which inspired Finnegan's Rainbow). One of the characters, illustrated as a red-headed waif in typical 1920s style (her edition was from 1947), was Caitilin Ni Murrachu. Between my father's Irish roots and my shock of red hair, the lass from Gort na Cloca Mora won out over the star outfielder. 

There are now oodles of Katelins and Caitlyns out there, thanks to a surge in the name's popularity in the 80s--too late for me. However, eagle-eyed readers will note the spelling--three i's. I hope the next few generations of family historians will be kind and not decide it is a typo. It most certainly is not, and while I may have suffered the name as a child, as an adult it has become an important part of my identity. If you meet me in person, I will even tell you how to pronounce it in Irish. 

Caitilin Nu Murrachu and Pan

Footnote: in college, I met my very first Caitlin (she was missing an i, poor thing). She had never heard the tale or of the book, so I loaned her my copy. Unfortunately, it never came back to me, and I was never able to find the edition with the fine illustrations. In writing this, I checked online, and found these familiar-to-me images--on an independent bookseller's site. It's winging it's way to me now.

The innkeeper's daughter

When I was a girl, every Sunday we would pile in the car with Dad and go get Grammie. When I was little, that meant a trip from the east Bay to San Francisco, where we would pick Grammie up from her suite at the Geary Hotel. In season, we would head to the wharf and pick up crab and fresh sourdough bread for lunch. 

It never occurred odd to me that my Grammie lived in a hotel, but then I didn't really understand the concept that my parents had a life before me. But they did, and as an adult considering retirement options, I now understand her choice to live in a hotel: she'd been doing it most of her life.

When my Grammie, Ruth Neely Thompson, was a girl, her parents owned and operated a hotel in Omaha, Nebraska. Her father had worked for Union Pacific Railroad in many roles, and purchasing a 60-room hotel around 1892--with eighty permanent guests--was a natural extension of this. In 1910 George was listed in the census as a grain dealer--even though he is the first person listed at the Merriam Hotel; his wife Mary is the one actually running the hotel. 

The Merriam Hotel, Omaha, Nebraska

A contemporary description of the Merriam calls it a "First Class Family Hotel" where people could "live comfortably and economically in clean bright rooms and apartments." The rate was $1.50 a night. One of the people who stopped at the hotel was an engineer named Albert Walsh, who had taken a job in Omaha to manage the Gabriel Snubbers Agency (they sold automotive shock absorbers). Ruth was 39, and Albert 46 when they married in 1924.

Shortly after their marriage, Ruth and Albert moved back to his hometown of San Francisco, where they built a few houses for resale. After the birth of their son in 1926, they "settled down" and bought the Biltmore Hotel at 735 Taylor Street in San Francisco. A charming residential hotel at the base of Nob Hill, they struggled to make it work: she managed the kitchen and housekeeping, he dealt with customers and repairs. 

The Biltmore Hotel, San Francisco

Their marital bliss was short-lived: in 1941, Albert died of a massive heart attack, leaving Ruth to run the hotel and raise their 14 year-old son. In a true twist of irony, the onset of WWII and the flurry of shipbuilding and military activity in the Bay Area meant that the hotel turned into a cash cow, and they could live comfortably--and sock away money for the future. 

When it came time for Ruth to retire, she did what came naturally: she sold the hotel (which today remains a residence, renting tiny efficiency studios for usurious prices), and moved into a hotel herself. It wasn't until she broke her hip--during a vacation when she was 72--that she deigned to move into something resembling assisted living. 

But she was always near us, and every Sunday, we would bring her into our home from wherever she was living at the time. And it explained why there were a few towels embroidered with "Biltmore" in our linen closet.

Sisterly love

The picture sometimes only tells part of the story. In this case, we see two sisters in an affectionate pose. The older sister, Ruth, is my grandmother; the younger, standing next to her is Mayone, five years younger. Missing is Irene, born just one year before Ruth. There are no photos of the three sisters together, as Irene died when Mayone was a toddler. At the ripe old age of six, Ruth became the older sister, and her sense of responsibility to her remaining sister was an integral part of her character. 

Family lore states that when the third daughter arrived, there were out of names, so they named her after her birthday: May one. From a researcher's perspective, the unique name makes her easy to find--until she married and became Mrs. Thomas Moonlight Murphy. Thomas (not the Civil War hero of the same name, but directly descended from him) was a lawyer for the National Surety Company, and he took his new bride to Buenos Aires with him when sent to establish an Argentine branch. They returned to the states two years later as a family of three. By all accounts, the family was fairly wealthy--there was always a live-in servant listed in censuses for the household. 

Both sisters attended the University of Nebraska, and joined the same sorority (Alpha Phi). While Mayone married right out of college, Ruth remained at home, working as a bookkeeper, and helping run the family's hotel--the Merriam Hotel in Omaha. It seemed clear to all that Ruth, in late 30s, was destined to be an old maid. 

But she didn't: a long story, for another day, left her in San Francisco, a widowed single mother running the Biltmore Hotel. Money was tight until the war came, and the residential hotel turned into a gold mine: Ruth socked the money away, buying a little bit of stock every month, building a healthy nest egg. 

But while many save money for "someday," Ruth started giving it away in her final decades. One letter, saved with a copy of the deposited check, hints that Mayone's final years were anything but luxurious. Ruth was staying with Mayone after eye surgery:

Dear Mayone,

    Since your next birthday is coming up on May 1st, I want to make a gift to you now while I am in your home of $2,700.00. I am making this as a birthday gift now in hopes that you will be able to enjoy it for some of the things you need and might not otherwise have. Perhaps you would like to use part of this fund to redeem your rings which you pledged some time ago for a loan.

Affectionately,

Your sister Ruth

Sisters Mayone and Ruth