I knew I had been a quick delivery, but liked hearing the story anyway. My mother had a way of describing my birth as though it had been someone else's. My childhood, my cuteness, my curls were described as a matter of a past long gone and belonging to someone I didn't know, even while talking to me. It was always a fun story, though, so I smiled and nodded in return to her question. She looked into the air in front of the couch where we were sitting and continued.
"I go to the hospital and they just call Herminka, and we were waiting for her". It had taken me years, literally decades to figure out who these people were and how they interconnected. Since no one told me anything, I sort of had to do it all myself. Herminka was my mom's OB/GYN and also a childhood friend from Bulgaria. I saw her in Sofia as an adult and really liked her. She'd left Armenia in the late 60's to go back to Bulgaria, something she was envied for as I remember. I grew up with her memory, along with the many other ghost members of my parents's community of friends. Memories of these ghosts always accompanied events, conversations and all interactions in general.
Remember, when so-and-so was in Varna or Cairo? Oh, they weren't stupid enough to come here. No, they go to Lebanon or Canada or Australia. Such and such see them at airport in Paris, on way to New York or maybe Brazil, al chap chem kider... that much I don't know... This is what I heard all the time, and so the confusion was overwhelming and it took me a couple of years to figure it out. To be honest, it's still a work in progress.
"Herminka go to hospital, we start talk and then before we even have a room, PHOT, you were there, like gymnast!". My mother smiled at the image. I smiled too. I liked the onomatopoetic "PHOT", a short version of "PHOT DEI", to describe a sudden event. I liked the image of a baby catapulting into the world. Catapulting like a gymnast landing a summersault off a balance beam.
"They call you Tereshkova," she said. "You know who that is?", she turned to ask.
"Yeah, the first woman in space," I nodded.
I wanted to ask how she'd felt when first seeing me, but all I could do was smile. Tereshkova, hmmm. So, that's what my name was. Not bad.
All these years, I had thought that I had had no name. Literally. I hadn't been properly named when born and the issue of my name had been a point of contention. The top contenders were Hripsemeh and Verjine, but these didn't work. Thus, I walked around for a year with no name. Finally, through no fault of my relatives, a name took. This was my family's lore. A tale told at parties and dinner, about how they couldn't think of a name and no one could agree. There were other contenders as well. Gayane was my brother's choice and Knarik was my uncle's. In fact, there was even a gift sent from the guys at the factory where my father and uncle worked.
"What's the child's name?" my uncle was asked. Not being certain, he said, "Knarik". So they sent the gift to little Knarik.
Eventually came a point when a decision had to be made. I was beginning to respond and walk. They had to call me something. My uncle apparently started to call me "Anahit". This is one version of the story. Other people had started calling me by other names, but finally something took. As different names mutated and changed while completing the circuit, something took. Anna.
So, that's my name now. Anna. I like it, but to tell the truth, I have always found it odd that it was a process and not an act. For the longest time, I thought this was how it was for everyone. Imagine my surprise upon seeing a name book and learning that for most people it worked out differently.
When my mother told me the Tereshkova story, I somehow felt more complete. My name, the thing that came to people's mind when I sprang into this world -- literally, according to my mom-- was Tereshkova. The first woman in space. Not to shabby, I'd say. I was so excited, I could have burst. Tereshkova. Wow.
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