The Accidental Grandmother Name: Hiding in Plain Sight

You might think it an easy thing — considering what to be called as a grandparent. I understand that there is absolute magic in the names Grandma, Grandpa, or whatever else will spill from your grandchild’s mouth, when he or she starts to recognize you and verbalize. I get that. But those who know me, and know me well, also know that I like to leave little to chance.

Most of my friends and relatives are perfectly happy, and rightfully so, to adopt the language of their culture. But in Judaism, the Yiddish word for grandmother and grandfather are Bubbe and Zayde. While rhythmic in their own right, they both bring to my mind visions of Fiddler on the Roof. And that is not me.

The Hebrew words for grandmother and grandfather are Savta and Saba. These words might be more appropriate had I grown up in a more traditional home, calling my own parents Emah and Abba (mother and father), which I did not. So these Jewish terms of endearment did not flow easily to me as well.

Then there’s simply Grandma and Grandpa. Growing up, I called my grandmothers Grandma Kirshstein and Grandma Steinert. Can you think of anything less personal or less endearing than that? I cannot, and wonder what that says about the relationships I had with my grandmothers, both of whom lived with my family during various stages of my life until I left for college. Leave that to my therapist!

Allan, of course, has no issue with his grandfather name. His father was Papa Jack to his grandchildren; and his brother is Papa Jeff to his grandchildren. All he ever wanted to be called is Papa Allan. If things only came so easily to me…

In my usual over-analytic way, I did research, looking at names used in cultures the world over for grandparents. Some were particularly lovely, but then I felt badly appropriating the language of another culture if I were not willing to use the language of my own.

In between, I fixated on created grandmother names. I like Grammy, though perhaps over-used? I had an aunt whose husband called her Honey, so everyone called her Honey, including her children and grandchildren. Another woman in town had her grandchildren call her Beautiful. No telling how my children would have reacted to that!

For awhile, I liked Khaki, repeating on the initial K from Kayte, though Zack said it reminded him of drab, casual slacks. Then I settled on Kiki. I never had a nickname as a child, and I thought Kiki sounded California cool. And Raya, a native Southern Californian, is bound to be cool, just like her Mom. But is that me? Am I really cool? Not so much …

Then pop culture came to the rescue. I doubt that many of you watched the Netflix series Shtisel about an ultra-Orthodox, Heredi family living in Jerusalem. One of the daughters was named Gitel, and her husband (a ne’er do well who redeems himself), affectionately calls her Giti. (It is a beautiful series, even in subtitles. I urge everyone to watch it, regardless of faith.)

Now I have always said that I do not have a middle name. But in truth, I was named for Kate Gitel Prodosky, the mother of my great aunt and uncle, Etta and Zeke Prodosky. Uncle Zeke and his wife, my Aunt Shirley, never had children, and regarded my brothers and me as their children. My sons, Zack and Shane, are named for them.

Though I was never fond of the name Gitel — even my sons had never heard me say it — I particularly liked Giti as a term of endearment. Upon further research, it turns out the name Gitel is a female name of Hebrew origin that means Good. I may not be California cool, but in my heart, I always try to be Good, with a capital G.

And, that to me, is a particularly fine grandmother name that lets me remain true to my heritage. Let’s hope my little Raya, when she learns to recognize me and to speak, can say it.

But if she wants to call me poopy butt-head, that will be fine, too. Though Beautiful has a nicer ring to it….