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.