233063
Finding Kelowna  

The priest was right

My cat is sitting on my lap; I type, he snoozes. He is fourteen, and like the immortal he believes himself to be, he boasts many names like Garfield, Radar and Kitty…snapshots that capture aspects of who he is, and of the sensibilities of those who tagged him.

Bestowing a name captures the spirit of a being. And through this holy and dangerous ability wisdom sometimes moves imperfectly like a misstep in a beautiful dance. We never name ourselves, this activity belongs to others who either bless or curse us with their designations.

Mine begins beneath a shady tree in the Veneto region of Northern Italy. Long before I am born an Italian youth reads the exploits of Gianni (Johnny), a lad who travels the world with dog and horse in search of adventure. The young man, my father, is enthralled with the stories of this courageous wanderer and decides that if he should have a son, he will call him by that name, and through it, give his son what he cherishes most in himself.

In 1949 I squeal into the world with two middle names: Eugenio and Max. The first is a tribute to my paternal grandfather, but the second is American and exudes adventure, opportunity and the promise of a new life on the other side of the ocean. At the baptismal font my father is resolved to have the priest christen me ‘Gianni Eugenio Max’. But this is not to be.

As the priest tips water onto my forehead he repeats an incantation that is two thousand years old: “I baptize you,” he intones, “Gianni Eugenio Ma…Max?” He asks, puzzled and somewhat distressed. “Max is not an Italian name…Marco…Marco is better.” And thus he inscribes my baptismal certificate. But Max will not be denied. He lies warm and curled in my father’s heart, and sails with him to the new world to prepare a better life for us.

In 1955 I am five and a half years old and live in a rainforest of ravens and eagles that glide over a primordial canopy of emerald. I am in the first grade and sit in my row of blonde wooden desks and inkwells where with effort I practice writing my name. Our teacher wears a black and white-winged habit. She smells like a mother, and on my scribbler her thick red pencil prints JOHNNY and she tells me to copy it. I am puzzled, but she is teacher, and I do not resist.

In the second grade another Italian JOHNNY comes to class. And our friends distinguish us as Little Johnny and Big Johnny. I am the former and am secretly chafed by that diminutive throughout the lower grades. No kid raised on a diet of John Wayne, Garry Cooper and Elvis wants to be called ‘little’, although I am always the shortest, skinniest guy in the class. But such is the Adamic power of naming. It captures the soul of a person, and forever pins him like an insect on display.

I am now in seventh grade. I wear horn-rimmed glasses and Sister Mary Albert, Superior of the convent, assails us with information. She is rake thin, face like a hatchet, and fingers of bone. She points to my notebook and says, “Johnny’s a name for a child. You’re too old for that now…write JOHN.” I feel uneasy, but in those days teachers are not contradicted.

Years pass…I am seventeen and have morphed into John Eugene Mark, all vestiges of my heritage erased from my name. My girlfriend playfully transforms Venice into Vienna, and thereafter my friends affectionately call me The Vienna Kid. I call her Stevie after Steve Reeves an actor who portrays Hercules, while my roommate is Animal and two others are called Basil and Miguel.

The Sixties drive by in a roar of psychedelia, protests and hitchhike tours through Europe. And 1973 finds me teaching high school in a northern pulp mill town. “So...what’s your name in Italian?” my girlfriend asks. When I tell her why it changed she challenges me with the obvious: “Why don’t you take it back?” And when I do, society makes great attempts at pronouncing ‘Gianni’ correctly. But it requires effort, and acquaintances betray a secret resentment in their attempt to always shorten it.

For years I persist, educating all newcomers to the correct pronunciation. And when I leave the North for the Sonoran desert of Tucson I find that Americans are worse with what is unfamiliar. My American girlfriend whose name has inexplicably morphed into Minga wants to call me Gian, no matter how much I protest. We part and I meet my wife who faithfully pronounces my name. And my frustration with the pronunciation of others is resolved when we discover that my maternal grandfather’s name, Giovanni (John), is easier on the articulation of Anglophones.

Thereafter, when I introduce myself, strangers are charmed and females coo with the romantic associations ‘Giovanni’ conjures for them. I am unaccustomed to this response, but despite the occasional detractor people catch on and they are comfortable. And so am I – at least until I die. I have left instructions that my tombstone must read, ‘Gianni Eugenio Marco’. Max be damned – the priest was right!

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.



More Finding Kelowna articles

227681
About the Author

Giovanni is a poet, columnist, interviewer and photographer. His passion for literature and the writing arts began at three years of age when his mother read to him the poems of Giovanni Pascoli.

Finding Kelowna, as he explains it in his website of the same name, is a focus on the ordinary events, people and things that often go unnoticed. Its purpose is to reveal the startling brilliance of everyday life which may be beautiful, tragic or bizarre. Giovanni does this in a creative way that spotlights the sudden encounters, poignant moments and unusual circumstances that pepper daily life.

Through chance conversations and unexpected occurrences, the tone and character of Kelowna and its surroundings is explored. In so doing, Giovanni hopes that the reader will catch a glimpse of himself and of humanity in all its glorious imperfection.

To comment on his columns you may write to him at [email protected]. You may read other articles he has written by viewing his website at www.findingkelowna.com.  You may view his photography blog at www.gioklik.com, and read his poems, stories and perspectives at www.yzed.wordpress.com.

Like Humans of Kelowna on Facebook!  https://www.facebook.com/humansofkelowna



232482
The views expressed are strictly those of the author and not necessarily those of Castanet. Castanet does not warrant the contents.

Previous Stories



232249


232159