At
the age of seven I was temporarily relocated to a different town and found
myself, one Monday morning, deposited by relatives at the gates of an
unfamiliar school. The timing, part-way through the school-year, was
unfortunate: mine was the only new face and, even at that age, I could see that
there were two possible outcomes from the situation - acceptance or rejection. It
was touch and go until playtime when one of the older kids barged up and
demanded to know my name: “Holdsworth” I said. “Ozzy Oldsworth” he countered and, from that moment, I knew everything would be all right. I had been anointed with a
name which was acceptable to the group and I was not to be ridiculed,
ostracised or thumped.
Years
later I came to appreciate just how fortunate I had been. Displaced people
throughout history have felt obliged to change their names in order to avoid
stigmatisation - to ‘fit in’ - and mine had been sorted for me, in the
playground, long before it had become a burden.
The
name Holdsworth is itself the product of the ‘fitting-in’ process. Although it
can be traced to a hamlet in Yorkshire where stands an eponymous medieval manor
house, it did not emerge fully formed. In 1272 a certain Monsieur de Aldeworth
bought the land there but evidently began to feel culturally uncomfortable amongst
the natives. So he adopted a few of their customs, married a local lass and
eventually Anglicised his name by dropping the ‘de’ and adding the ‘H’ and‘s’. And
so the paternal side of my family established its local credentials long ago.
Monsieur was not to know that ‘H’ was destined to become mostly redundant in
Yorkshire parlance.
The
maternal side also has a mongrel ancestry but its consolidation is more recent.
My mother’s father was born in the Lebanon in an era when the essentially
tribal, nomadic residents of the middle-east looked upon state boundaries more
as guidelines than as sacrosanct borders. Passports were considered to be of
little use or consequence: the family name was the true repository of a person’s
history and identity - and his family name was Beycour-Hayek.
He
fetched up in Egypt where he subsequently met and married a French national –
one of the many who had taken up residence there to secure their interests in
the Suez Canal. It seems that he also felt the need to join the ‘in crowd’ –
perhaps especially so since he was trying to build a western-style business in
the form of a string of optometrist shops. So he dropped the Arab-sounding
first part of his name and the French did the rest: they abandoned the ‘H’ (a
trait they share with Yorkshire folk) and moulded the rump into a more
French-sounding ‘Ayac’ – albeit with a colonial flavour.
But
what if my Lebanese grandfather, Mr Beycour-Hayek, had chosen to marry a Yorkshire lass instead of
a French one? My fantasy is that he might have ended up with the surname By'Eck
- and that's what I would call "fitting in".
Oh how I love your humour and ability to come up with such amusing blogs while still making us think about the subject in hand.
ReplyDelete