Patricia Duffy Terho’s family history includes one of those now infamous “my name was changed by immigra- tion officials” stories. Her grandmother, Bridget Walsh, left Ireland for the United States in April 1899. And that’s when her name was changed by an American immigra- tion official at the Port of Galway, Ireland, who told her, “I’m changing your name to Delia. There are too many
surnames includes names
given to differentiate one person
from another by means
of a trade or
Bridgets in the United States already!” Meanwhile, as offi- cials transcribed the sound of the family name phoneti- cally, Bridget’s surname went from Walsh to Welch on the ship’s manifest. Her certificate of landing, dated 5 May 1899 at the Port of Boston, identifies her as Delia Welch.
“All of her brothers were given the surname of ‘Welch’ at that time—same official. Her youngest sister, who had not moved to the United States at the same time because she was still a child, came about 10 years later. ... She’s the only one who retained the Walsh last name,” Patricia says. Her grandmother “often retold this story to others. She said she readily accepted the name change if it meant she could come to the United States. She must not have disliked the name too much because, years later, she named her first daughter Delia.” Today, Patricia is simply glad she heard the story from her uncle. “I could have wasted hours and hours researching Delia Welch and not ever have known that I really wanted Bridget Walsh.”
Some people have their new names thrust upon them. Others choose their own.
James Lindsley’s great-grandmother was born Lavisa Watkins Lunbeck—a name she hated. She chose to be known as Itie instead. Aside from Lavisa disliking her
given name, James isn’t sure why she chose Itie: “It may have been a variation of ‘Ittie’ or ‘Itsie’ since Lavisa was a very short lady. She was photographed with her sister-in- law … and barely reaches [her] shoulder.” But Itie she was and remained, on documents for her marriage, the births of her three sons, her death certificate, and even, James notes, set in stone: “She is buried next to her parents at Grandview Cemetery, Chillicothe, Ohio. Her tombstone reads ‘Itie Lindsley.’”
Other parents (or perhaps the children themselves) apparently thought better of a name that may have seemed good at the time. Jo Sapp of Columbia, Missouri, reports that Earl and Dora Barnhill’s 10th son, born in October 1908, appears as Halley’s Comet Barnhill in the 1910 cen- sus for Hopkins County, Texas. Jo wonders if maybe the name was a bit of a joke for the census taker, but in any case, H.C. ended up known in his adult life as T.G. (Trevor Gordon) Barnhill until he died in Dallas in 1964.
Cleveland Evans (named for a grandfather named for the president rather than the city and author of The Great Big Book of Baby Names) went to school with a girl whose parents disagreed on what to name her. “Her father got to the birth certificate first and named her something like Barbara Ann, but her mother was very stubborn, so she always called the girl Mary Sue, which is what she want- ed.” Mary Sue is the name everybody knew her by, and inevitably, at the beginning of every school year when the teacher read the official name from the roll, this girl had to raise her hand and ask to be called Mary Sue—until her 16th birthday, when she asked if she could have her name legally changed as a present.
The history of surnames includes names given to dif- ferentiate one person from another by means of a trade or a feature or a place: Baker, Armstrong, Whitehouse. Donna Fritz’s third great-grandfather Peter Beech Fork Adams took on his unique middle name when he was mistakenly charged for another man’s victuals. “He used the odd-sounding middle name to distinguish himself from another Peter Adams in the area. The story goes that the other Peter left a bill at the local store and ‘my’ Peter ended up paying for another’s groceries as a result in the mix-up of names. I guess he was the first victim of identity theft.”
And speaking of curious handles, Carol Thompson wondered for years why everybody called her cousin Harry Vasey, Budgy. She couldn’t see anything about him
References:
Archives