No5: MY NAME
PHOTO BY EMILY HRICAK
EMILY HRICAK
“Hricak. It’s spelled H-R-I-C-A-K.” The phrase I recited every time my last name was incorrectly pronounced. My face would turn red and the class would laugh as I began my spiel on how to correctly say my name. Explaining the roots of my name became an annoyance. “Yes, the H is silent and the C is soft like an S.” This small irritation was an on-going embarrassment. Then, my ninth grade history teacher perfectly pronounced my last name upon seeing it for the first time. I was shocked. My relationship with my name began to change.
He recognized the origin of my name, correctly identifying it as Slovak, and encouraged me to learn more. Through family stories, information gathered by our family’s self-appointed genealogist (Aunt Sally), and state-of-the-art sources like Ancestry.com, I’ve begun to piece together a cultural history of my ancestors. They risked everything to come to the States as a part of the Eastern European migration at the turn of the twentieth century. They worked the coal mines and raised big Catholic families. Like so many immigrants, they came to make a better life for themselves and their offspring, like me.
I’ve connected with Hricaks from around the world, from Slovakia to here in the States. In Bratislava, everyone can pronounce my name. My Ciocia (Aunt) Theadora is teaching me to make Slovak dishes, adding Halupki and pierogies to my cooking repertoire. My appreciation grows the more I learn, and I believe it is my duty to remember and carry on my ancestors’ stories. In understanding my roots, I now sit up tall during roll call and am proud to share my family name.
Given the dominance of issues regarding immigration in the media and the conversation about who is a “real American,” I see my history with my surname through a new lens. Looking at me, you would see an insider, but when you try to pronounce my name, I am on the outside. I’ve begun to understand, in some small way, what it means to be one of the “others.” In a simple and powerful way, a kid from Venice, California can catch a glimpse into a situation in which millions of people find themselves. It makes me realize that there is no “them.” There is only “us.”
