My mother tells this story: When I was baptized in Portugal, the priest asked my name. As Mother prepared to say "Susana," my godfather blurted "Aldina." No one in the hamlet --neigh the parish-- had heard such a name.
It was the custom among some for godparents to bestow their name, their blessing, & their patronage on the child. "It's a fine name," said my padrinho Joaquim Almeida by way of explanation. "I made it myself. What better gift could I give than that?"
In Fellini's semi-autobiographical film, Amarcord, characters shout my name during a peak moment, & I have since learned "Aldina" is Italian & Turkish. I traced a variant of my last name to 14th century registries in places of worship in Apulia on Italy's Adriatic coast & in Thessaloniki on the Aegean Sea.
On an impromptu voyage of discovery a few years back, I traveled to America's oldest synagogue & met a gentleman from Morocco. I hadn't set out to visit Philadelphia -- it was simply the last train out of Penn Station. But there I was, near a Sephardic synagogue. And it was Saturday.
I asked, could I come inside, once I found some proper clothes. It was Memorial weekend & it was hot. I wore a little black dress, the same one I'd worn the day before; I hadn't packed for my trip. I ran to the nearest drug store & found tights & a plastic poncho that looked like a judge's robe.
Earlier that day, I'd walked around North Philly & discovered in a dollar store a hot pink paper hat,
And there I began to unearth the strange Sephardic roots of my family that spread to my godfather, who blessed me with my name -- the name of Jacob's spurned tribe, which sprang from Leah's seed, whose words remain unknown.
