Growing up, my peers at school associated me with man's best friend.
I dreaded when my teachers took attendance out loud, especially at the beginning of each school year when they said each student's first and last name to get the pronunciation right. When my name was called, there were always at least a few in the classroom who would bark.
The misery peaked in music class during elementary school. Each year around the holidays, Mrs. McKenna would play Christmas music on the turntable. We would listen to the scratchy recordings of songs and sing along to these carols. With a big grin on her face, she would "surprise" our class by playing a 45 record of dogs barking to the tune of Jingle Bells. At least half the class would look at me from mild amusement to uncontrolled laughter, expecting me to join in with those dogs. To this day if I hear this song on the radio, I change the station.
The idea of changing my last name back to Bacharach began by being asked so many times, "What's your background?"
In Dix Hills, most everyone was either Italian Roman Catholic or Jewish. The outliers were anyone in between: Irish Protestants, Presbyterians, Episcopalians (me), Methodists, Muslim, etc. Most everyone was sized up by their last name. So the inquiries I received about my origins was not surprising.
Who I was became more pronounced during my three semesters at CUNY Queens College between 1991 and 1992 (where I took non-matriculated undergrad psych classes).
I was struck by how students socialized on campus - in small clusters, no more than 5 or 6 people - sitting together at cafeteria tables or on the grass. Each cluster had a common bond of origin: religion, country or language. I never found a cluster that fit me. It probably would have been easier if someone in each cluster held up a sign to indicate which one they were: Russian, Arabic, Reformed Jewish.
The students I met in class were amazed I didn't speak either of my parents' first languages. Some of them would try to size me up if I was Jewish or not. Since my Mom was not, they concluded I wasn't either.
What also helped get the name-change ball rolling was a friend at Queens College. When I met Mike he was in the process of getting his name changed because he thought it was a cool idea.
Soon I was mentioning my real last name in conversation with people I met when they asked about my background. It made me feel less generic, less Barker.
"Why don't you change it back?" a few asked.
By 1996 I was ready to do this. At the time I wasn't aware my last name could be changed seamlessly with the marriage license my future wife and I would acquire later that year. So I followed my friend Mike's footsteps by pursuing the legal red tape route in Brooklyn to make it happen. One of the things I had to do was place an ad in a local paper to announce the change, pay the legal fees and sign all of the legal documents for Kings County.
Then the fun began: changing all my credit card, bank account, bills, driver's license, social security card, you name it - and getting the hang of signing my new name.
Even hearing my new name was a test. Soon after I was officially Bacharach, I had jury duty.
You had to wait for your name to be called. Would I hear my new name the way I heard my old one? I was nervous I wouldn't recognize it and get penalized, as if I had not shown up for jury duty.
The woman on the PA system struggled. It came out as "Back-CAR-wreck."
Maybe my grandparents were right about changing it in the first place.
When my Dad heard I had defected, he was happy for me. I asked him why he never changed the name himself. He said he never wanted to bother.
At the time I thought this was him being lazy. Though now with my own family, it makes sense. Having to change not only my own identification but also my children's documentation seems like a lot.
Nevertheless I would have welcomed my Dad's decision if he had taken the plunge so it could tongue-tie my teachers, deflect my teasing peers, and give me a boost of identity.
