An excerpt from The Observer -His Eye is on the Sparrow
Mom named me Karen after my grandmother. Because I would have loved to have known my grandmother, and because Mom keeps reminding me that I am just like her mother, I spend a fair amount of time on my laptop trying to learn as much as I can about my ancestry. I begin by googling the name Karina.
I learn that Karina is a Hindi name meaning Flower; Pure; Innocent; Dear little one. Maybe my grandmother lived up to her name, but I can understand why Mom shortened my name to Karen. I’ve never heard my mother call me her ‘dear little one’, but I’ve grown used to hearing her shout, “Dear God, what have you done this time? Watch what you’re doing!”
I google my name and discover that the name Karen is of German origin and means “hard worker”. And I am a hard worker whether my mother thinks I am or not. I believe it’s possible I may have some German ancestry on my father’s side of the family. Anything is possible because I know so little.
I have no idea who my father is. I don’t know if he is German. I don’t even know if he is dead or alive. Mom refuses to talk about him. For that matter, I don’t know who my grandfather was either, but when I google the name ‘Wakeling’, I’m not too surprised to learn that its roots are also in Germany.
My grandmother’s maiden name is Karina Sahni. I understand she grew up as one of a Hindu family living in India. She was married to my grandfather who may have been German.
Again, by googling, I learn that the name ‘Wakeling’ is derived from the name ‘Walco’ and that the meaning of Walco is foreigner. So now I wonder if my grandfather was a German foreigner in India. I mean, how on earth did my German grandfather meet my East Indian grandmother? There is no one for me to ask except my mother and I’ve given up trying to get her to talk about these things.
My mother decided not to take the time to marry my father, so I carry my grandfather’s name. I would like to know my father’s name, but my mother is not about to tell me. There have been times in the past when I’ve asked, “Mom, tell me about my father. What is his name?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Karen. I don’t even want to think about it. The past is the past. I’ve shut the door on it, and I don’t look back. I suggest you do the same. Just watch what you’re doing in the here and now, and don’t bother me with those kinds of questions.”
“But I’d really like to know, Mom.”
“Are you deaf, Karen? Haven’t you heard a word I just said to you?”
I hear what she says. I think about what she says. But I still would like to know. As far as I can remember, Mom has never been interested in caring about what I like.
I like to spend some time writing in my journal. I’m trying to make the most of the time I have right now while Mom is still at work. I like to write about my feelings and my deepest dreams and wishes. I don’t find a lot of time to do this writing because Mom doesn’t approve.
She’ll be home soon. I know she doesn’t like me journaling because she has told me so in no uncertain words. “Watch what you’re doing,” she will shout if she catches me writing. “Stop wasting your time! Just step back and observe yourself, Karen. Don’t you know that, if you write down private thoughts, someone can come along and throw them into your face? Watch what you’re doing!”
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