Enough is enough. Especially when it comes to a name.
Many of you have undoubtedly faced a crisis or two about your own. It can come from anywhere, like changing (or NOT) your family name when getting married. Or dumping the curse of one you never liked.
Famous examples abound. The great Texas-born classical pianist Van Cliburn was in fact Harvey Lavan Cliburn. Lady Gaga is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Kirk Douglas was Issur Danielovitch. Marilyn Monroe came from Norma Jean Mortenson. Tony Curtis had been Bernard Schwartz. John Wayne was Marion Mitchell Morrison.
You get the picture.
When I was born in Boston 72 years ago this New Year’s Eve, my mom made my father promise not to name me “Harvey.” Dad’s father, who’d just passed away, was Herschel. So the “H” was unavoidable. But there were certainly better choices. She never forgave him. Me either.
My middle name is Franklin, as my parents were big FDR fans. As an historian, I like it for Ben.
Wasserman means “Aquarius” or Water Man in German. I’m good with that.
But “Harvey”?
The rabbit in the Jimmy Stewart movie was in fact a real-life “Pooka”, a Celtic spirit.
