Once a new name has been recognized, whether by judicial approval or by common consent, it becomes as much the bearer’s possession as his original name, and may be used and defended in all situations in which the latter may be used and defended. This was decided in 1923 by Judge Learned Hand, then a Federal district judge in New York, in the case of the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation vs. Samuel Goldwyn. Goldwyn, who was born Gelbfisch and later called himself Goldfish, changed his name to Goldwyn in 1918, and as Goldwyn rose to fame and wealth as a movie magnate. But he lost control of the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation to others, and when, in 1923, he resumed making pictures and launched a screen version of “Potash and Perlmutter” on Broadway, the corporation got a temporary injunction against him, and he was ordered to credit the production on his billing to S. G. Inc. On the hearing of an application to make the injunction permanent Judge Hand vacated it, with the provision, accepted by Goldwyn, that he should add “not connected with Goldwyn Pictures Corporation” to all his public announcements. The learned judge’s decision said:
I come from good old Boston, The home of the bean and the cod,
Where the Lowells speak only to Cabots, And the Cabots speak Yiddish, by God.
A variorum version, ascribed (no doubt apocryphally) to Woodrow Wilson, made the last two lines read:
Where the Lodges can’t speak to the Cabots, ’Cause the Cabots speak Yiddish, by God.
A new name, when honestly assumed and worn, may well be of as much or nearly as much consequence to its bearer as though it were familial. Our names are useful or dangerous to us according to the associations they carry among those who hear them. If we have by our past conduct established a good name, that is an interest, pecuniary or honorific, of which we may well object to being deprived, and which may exceed in value that which we inherited. A self-made man may prefer a self-made name.
Under circumstances like that at bar it appears to me that Goldwyn, who has familiarized the public – with the acquiescence of the plaintiff – with that name, has as much right to complain of its loss as though he had not inherited the less euphonious Gelbfisch, or its equivalent, Goldfish.…
The plaintiff’s business was built up, in part at any rate, by Goldwyn’s activity, and I may take it, I think, by his capacity and imagination.… The defendant accepts the necessity of some limitation upon his rights; he only objects to complete obscurity.1
The marriage, death and other personal notices in the newspapers frequently record changes in Jewish surnames. I reach into my collectanea and bring forth Burstein changed to Burr,2 Abrahams to Allen,3 Loewenthal to Lowell,4 Butensky to Burton,5 Fleischer to Fleming,6 Bogitzky to Bogart,7 Abrams to Adams,8 Ginsborg to Gilbert,9 Bernstein to Brett,10 Markowitz to Marlowe, Cohen to Coliver,11 Lewisohn to MacLevy,12 Feinstein to Fenton,13 Katzenstein to Kaye,14 Leventhal to Lawrence,1 Finkelstein to Flint and to Fenton,2 Schlesinger to Walter,3 Schneittacher to Snedeker,4 Isaac to Ives,5 Wohlgemuth to Wall,6 Weinstein to Winston, Leberstein to Livingston, Rosenberg to Robinson and to Ruskin,7 Edelstein to Addleston, Wasserzweig to Vassar-Smith,8 Reizenstein to Rice,9 Schmetterling to Smith,10 Leibowitz to Leidy,11 Finkelstein to Finn,12 Pulitzer to Stevens,13 Rothstein to Ross, and Goldberg to Gould and Coburn.14
Changes are frequently made in Jewish names that are not abandoned altogether. Cohen, which is the commonest of such surnames in the United States,15 is to be encountered as Cohn, Cone, Cowan, Conn, Cahan, Cohon, Coyne, Cohan, Coen,16 Kohn, Kohan, Kohon, Kahn, Kann and Kohen.17 Some of these forms are not arbitrary, but have history and foreign custom behind them. Cohen is a Hebrew word, kohen, signifying, originally, a prince or priest, but later a priest only. By Jewish tradition the name and the office are restricted to descendants of Aaron, but that tradition, like many others, has long since lost force. The Sephardic Jews pronounce the word ko-hén; the German Jews make it koh’n, in one syllable; the Polish Jews make the first syllable rhyme with now, and the Russian Jews prefer káy-hun.1
Levy is another Jewish patronymic that has many permutations. It is derived from the name of the Levites, who were priests of an inferior order. The original Hebrew designation of them was Lewi, and from it have sprung Levi, Levy, Lewy, Levie, Leavy, Leevy, Levey, Levvy, Levay, Leve, Levee, Levin, Levine, Levene, Levien, Leveen, Leven, Levins, Levita, Levitan, Levitas, Levitz, Levitski, Levninsky, Levinson, Levinsohn, Levenson, Levison, Lewison, Lewisohn, Lewis, Lewin, Levanne, Lever and a host of other forms, including Halevy (Hebrew ha, the).2 Lév-vy, with the accent on the first syllable, is sometimes heard; it probably comes closer to the original Hebrew pronunciation than either lée-vee or lée-vy, the latter with the vy rhyming with high. The Sephardic Jews use lay-vee, with the accent on the first syllable, and convert the v into our f. A number of American Levys have changed their name to Lee,3 and one family has chosen Leeds. I have also encountered Levis,1 LeVie, LaVey, Delavie, Dellevie, Leylan and Lewynne,2 some of them borne by French or French-Canadian Jews. Another name with many variations, especially in spelling, is Ginsberg, e.g., Ginzberg, Ginsburg, Ginsburgh, Ginsbury, Guinesberg, Gainsburg, Guynzburg3 and Ginsborough. Many other familiar Jewish names are similarly transmogrified. Goldstein becomes Goldstone, Golston, and finally Golson or Golsan; Goldberg becomes Goldhill, Goldboro, Golboro, or Goldsborough; Schapiro or Shapiro becomes Schapira, Schapierer, Shapero, Shapera, Shapereau,4 Chapereau,5 Chapiro or the terminal Rowe.6 I have encountered Guggenheim spelled Goughenheim7 and Labovitz turned into LaBovith. Many of the German-Jewish names in -berg, -thal, -feld, -mann, and so on have both elements translated, so that Rosenberg, for example, becomes Rosehill,8 Blumenthal becomes Bloomingdale, Wassermann becomes Waterman, and Schwarzmann becomes Blackman.9
Not a few Jewish names of German origin present phonological difficulties to the average American, and thus suffer changes in pronunciation like those undergone by the names of German and other non-Jewish immigrants. All the Strauses and Strausses who mention the pronunciation of their names in “Who’s Who in America” give the au the sound of ou in out, but there seems to be a growing tendency to make the name Straws, especially in the South. Moreover, over, even when it is not Straws it has the American s-sound at the start, not the German sh-sound. Several Goldsteins in “Who’s Who” ordain that the -stein of their name be pronounced steen, but Dr. Albert Einstein, the physicist, sticks to stine.1 This appearance of ei as ee is a curious phenomenon, not yet explained. If it represents an effort at elegance it is quite silly, for -steen is surely no more lovely than -stine. Happily, it seems to prevail only when -stein is terminal. In such names as Einstein, Feinstein and Weinstein one often hears -een in the last syllable, but never in the first. Nor does it appear in Weinburg, Klein, Fein, Steinbeck, Brandeis, Eichelberger, Eisenhower, Eisner, Dreiser and the like, some of them Jewish and some not, nor in simple Stein, nor in numerous Jewish names in -heim and -heimer. In names in Braun- and Blau- the German au is often pronounced aw, so that Braunstein becomes Brawnsteen and Blaustein becomes Blawsteen. In the same way Morgenthau becomes Morgenthaw, with the au pronounced aw and the German th changed to the English th in think. Something of the sort also happens in the case of the terminal -baum, which becomes bawm, as in Barenbawm for Barenbaum. Kühn at first dropped its umlaut and became Kuhn, pronounced to rhyme with moon; now it shows signs of going on to Kyun, but without any further change in spelling. Many of the early Jewish immigrants from the German lands, like the Germin Goyim, changed the spelling of their names in order to preserve the pronunciation. Thus Gorfein became Gorfine, Schön became Shane or Shain, and Klein became Kline.2 In innumerable cases, however, this was inconvenient or impossible, so the Jews, like other immigrants, had to submit to the mispronunciation of their names. Thus Sachs became Sax and has remained so, and Katz3 came to be identical in sound with cats, and Adler acquired a flat American a. In the common speech of New York the element -berger or -burger changes to -boiger, and I have heard it with a soft g.
Louis Adamic says in “What’s Your Name?”1 tha
t “Poles and Polish Americans seem impelled to more name-changing than any other group” – that is, with the exception of the Jews —, but his own evidence shows that many of them resist stoutly the changes forced upon them by the fact that Polish accents are unintelligible to most Americans and many Polish sounds are unpronounceable. Thus the names of Krzyzanowski,2 Kosciuszko, Andrzejski, Szymkiewicz, Szybczyński, Korzybski and Mikolajezyk still survive in American reference books and even in newspaper dispatches, though it is highly unlikely that more than one non-Polish-American in ten thousand can pronounce them.3 But many more Polish names have been simplified, e.g., Winiarecki to Winar, Czyzcwicz to Chasey, Zmudzinski to Zmuday, Gwzcarczyszyn to Guscas, and Modrzejewski to Modjeski,4 or translated into English, e.g., Smith for Kowalczyk, Wheeler for Kolodziejcak, Gardner for Ogrodowski, and Cook for Kucharz, or abandoned altogether for common British names, e.g., Izydorczyk for Sherwood, Wawrzynski for Stone, Szczepanski for Sheperd, Chrzanowski for Dunlap, Matykiewicz for Rodgers,5 Valuzki for Wallace,6 and Kedjerski for Kent.7 Sometimes the old name is retained as a middle name, as when Anthony Mierzejewski became Anthony Mierzejewski Mackey. And not infrequently, the new name chosen is not English but Irish or German, e.g., Micsza to McShea, Koscielniak to Moran, Golebiewski to Kress, Pruchniewski to Prosser and Smialkowski to Schultz.1
The Czechs, Slovaks, Serbs, Russians, Ukrainians and other Slavs all go the same route. Louis Adamic, in the book I was lately citing, describes the changes of name among his countrymen, the Slovenes. His own name, originally Adamič, i.e., Adamson or Little Adam, presented an accented consonant that Americans could not fathom, and a stress, Ah-dáh-mitch, that they could not be expected to follow, so in his youth in America he cast about for something less burdensome. He considered Adamich, Adamitch and Adamage, but finally decided on Adamic without the accent. “Each time,” he says, “a book of mine appears inquiries come from librarians, booksellers and lecturing book reviewers as to its ‘correct’ pronunciation. Going about the country, I hear myself called Adámic almost as often as Ádamic. To inquiries I reply that I prefer Adamic but am willing to let the pronunciation establish itself.”2 The troubles of the Slovaks, who have surnames not unlike those of the Slovenes, have been described by Ivan J. Kramoris.3 He says:
Slovak names, invariably accented on the first syllable, undergo various shifts when pronounced by the American tongue. Krámoris becomes Kramóris; Lédnicky, Lednícky; Bístricky, Bistrícky; Zémanovič, Zemánovic or Zemanóvic, and Péterka, Petérka. Jelačič, shorn of diacritical markings, is no longer pronounced with the j as y in yet but as j in jello, and with the shift in accent the name changes from Yélahchich (the ch as in church) to Jelássick.… Budiač, written Budiac, might be pronounced Búhdeeack, and the attempt to phonetize it in the spelling Budeach results in the loss of the middle syllable and evokes the pronunciation Buhdeach, in effect a new name.… Andic prompts the pronunciation Andik, yet the owner would have it Anditch. The addition of the h to make it Andich would confuse the Slovak reader, for then, instead of pronouncing the name Andeech (as when written Andič) or Andeetz (if written Andic), he would make of ich the guttural ch as in German ich or ach.
Kramoris says that the Slovaks in America rejoice when they happen to bear surnames which fall in with American speechways, e.g., Kuban, Toman, Urban, and Polak or Polack. Those with more difficult names sometimes find it so hard to teach Americans how to pronounce them that they are abandoned altogether. For example:
Dropping the diacritical mark in Vlčansky without adding an h to make it Vlchansky elicits the American pronunciation Vulkánskee. Adding the h, however, would change the Slovak pronunciation. Since the possessor of the name is an aspirant for a political office, to Americanize it is highly important. The insertion of the h will not do this for him,… so he resolves on a new name, a good vote-getting name, a name familiar to and respected by all Americans: Rockne.… Business men also think it advisable to make changes. Brlety may or may not know of the principle of metathesis in linguistics, but Brilty is more euphonious, and Brilty his name becomes. Greguška opens a fur store and changes his name to Greeg.… The Kuvulič family retains the name, but Doctor Kavulič changes his right in it to Kaval. The novelist of Slovak descent, Thomas Belejčak, becomes Thomas Bell. The Hudak sisters, a quartette singing for a commerical radio programme, change their name to Harding. In Hollywood Lillian Micuda becomes Lillian Cornell.… Your name may be Burovsky and you change it to Bury, or it may be Gorčiansky and you apocopate it to Gor, or it may be Molitoris and you ellipsize it to Moris.1
The discussion of Czech surnames in American in AL4,2 based on the studies of the Right Rev. J. B. Dudek,3 needs no amplification here. Russian and Ukrainian names, save those borrowed by Jews, are relatively rare in this country, and I know of no adequate investigation of them.4 The American Lithuanians, who are Balto-Slavs, and thus bridge the gap between the Slavs and the Teutonic peoples, are fortunate in that their surnames, taking one with another, are considerably more amenable to American speech habits than those of the Poles, and that they are thus under less pressure to change them. Such names as Klypa, Surgailis, Grigonis, Varnas, Asmantas and Zadeikis may seem a bit strange to a 100% American who encounters them for the first time, but they do not really alarm him. There are, however, other Lithuanian names that do, especially in their written form, and their bearers are thus constrained to change them. One of the commonest changes is made by substituting English consonants for the Lithuanian consonants, so that Sǔekevičius, for example, becomes Sukevicius and Valančiūnas becomes Valanciunas. This, of course, involves a change in pronunciation, but it is sometimes only slight. Other names are changed by omitting the original endings, e.g., -aitis, -onis and -unas, which are authentically Lithuanian, and -evicius, -avicius, -auska and -inskas, which are Polish. Thus Norkaitis becomes Norkat, Keturakaitis becomes Keturakat, Šalinskas becomes Shalins, Jakubauskas becomes Jakubs, and Bertašius becomes Bertash or Bartash. Sometimes the same name is changed differently by different members of the same family, e.g., Aukštikalnis, meaning a high hill, which is converted into Colney by one Lithuanian and into Hill by his cousin. Finally, there are the usual bold leaps to English names, sometimes related and sometimes not, e.g., Alksninis to Andrews, Tamošitis to Thomas, Bogdžiūnas to Borden, and Pilipavičius and Pilipauskas to Philipps.1 As in Russian, surnames are inflected for gender, so the wife of a man named Vabalas is Mrs. Vabalienē. Moreover, there is a special inflection to distinguish unmarried women, so that the daughter of this couple is Miss Vabalaitē. At home in Lithuania “it would be unthinkable and utterly ridiculous” to speak of Mrs. or Miss Vabalas, but in America these old inflections have broken down, and the masculine form is used “regardless of the sex of the person referred to.”2 Says the paper just quoted:
The Lithuanians are fully aware of the strong foreign imprint on their stock of surnames and they feel embarrassed about the situation. The Slavic elements are especially painful to their national pride. During the short period of Lithuanian independence3 serious efforts were made to eliminate or at least reduce foreign suffixes and replace them with Lithuanian formations in order to give the surnames a more Lithuanian appearance. A special Committee for the Restoration of Lithuanian Surnames was charged with the task of advising people with foreign-looking surnames “how to return them to their former Lithuanian purity.” This movement spread across the Atlantic and reached the Lithuanians in the United States. A very frequent procedure would be simply to cut off the Slavic suffix, e.g., to make Končius out of Koncevičius. Just as frequently the objectional suffix was replaced by a Lithuanian suffix, e.g., Antanavičius was changed to Antanaitis. In other cases the change went deeper, e.g., when Dzimidavičius was transformed into Daumantas, with the explanation that this had actually been the original form. Not only surnames of living persons were changed, but also those of historical personages.
The other Baltic peoples have varying fortunes when they bring their names to America
. The Finns, who are neither Slav nor Teutons, but Finno-Ugrians and hence allied to the Hungarians, have plenty of surnames that are quite easy for Americans and call for no change, e.g., Ikola, Hakala, Talvio, Holsti, Irkonen, Kallar, Kesti, Zilliacas and Kosola, but there are also others that pop the Yankee eye even when they do not strain the Yankee larynx, e.g., Koskenniemi, Sillanpää, Voionmaa, Tuomikoski, Päivärinta, Wuorijäri, Vuolijoki, Wäänänen and Määrälä, and these must be changed. Some of the old forms that are commonly abandoned, along with new forms adopted in their places, are listed in AL41 Many more are to be found in a paper by John Ilmari Kolehmainen, published in American Speech.2 Kolehmainen says that these changes are most frequent in the large cities, “where the pressure for phonological adjustment has been stronger,” and least in the rural regions. Names are simplified by dropping their prefixes, e.g., Niemi from Parhaniemi, Syrjäniemi and Kangasniemi, Saari from Pyöriasaari, Koski from Kalliokoski, and Maki (often spelled Mackey or reduced to Mack) from Kaunismäki, Myllymäki, Kortesmäki, Lamminmäki, Niinimäki and many other names in -mäki (Finn, hill); by dropping their suffixes, e.g., Niemi from Nieminen, Kallio from Kalliokowski, Lamp from Lamppinen, Wain from Wäinömöinen, and Maki from Mäkelä, Mäkitalo, Mäkivuori and their cognates; by dropping both prefix and suffix, e.g., Kane from Nykänen; by more or less crude transliteration, e.g., Harris from Harrus, Marlowe from Määrälä, Jervey from Järvi, Perry from Piira, and William(s) from Wiljamaa; by translation, either of the whole name or of a part, e.g., Sandhill from Hietemäki (Finn, hiekka, sand; mäki, hill), Lake from Järvinen (Finn. järvi, lake), Rose from Ruusu, Stone from Kiviniemi (Finn. kivi, stone), Churchill from Kirkkomäki, and Smith from Seppänen (Finn. seppä, blacksmith); and by the bold assumption of unrelated but popular British names, e.g., Harrison for Pirilä, Stephens for Nousiainen, Daniels for Puhakka, and Kelley for Karikanta. Kolehmainen says that “the name Wilson has had the greatest fascination.” The long cultural dependence of Finland upon Sweden introduced many Swedish and other Scandinavian surnames, and large numbers of Finns arrived in the United States bearing them – in different groups, according to Kolehmainen, from 20 to nearly 50%. Among these names “the most common were Anderson, Abrahamson, Erickson, Gustafson, Hendrickson, Jacobson, Johnson, Larson, Michelson and Peterson,” with Johnson the commonest by far. Most of them have been retained in the United States.1
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