Ramski
I was born RAP, but became a RAM. That’s right, I was born Richard Albert Prosdocimi, the name my father and his father carried with them when they emigrated right before the end of WWII to Venezuela from Italy. I have never confirmed the exact position in the Mussolini government held by my paternal grandfather, but have been told that it was something pretty high-ranking and something like the Minister of Ethiopian Affairs. I like that story because it allows me an “As the world turns” moment when I mention that when my mother and I moved to Italy in 1968 and she was made a Director of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the UN, she assumed her offices in the building at the base of the Aventine Hill in Rome, the same building that Mussolini built near the Circo Massimo to house the Ministry of Ethiopian Affairs. As the world turns, indeed.
So, while my mother was serving her tour in Venezuela with the Rockefeller Foundation from 1946 until 1958, she met and married my father, Silvano Andre Prosdocimi. Hence my birth name of Richard Albert (a.k.a. Ricardo Alberto) Prosdocimi in the noble (?) tradition of the family Prosdocimi from Bolzano, Italy and more lately El Tigre, Venezuela. It was not until 1962, my father having divorced my mother in 1959 or so, that this new-found Californian (an American citizen compliments of the War Brides Act of 1946) decided to change his name to Andre Silvano Marin. Marin was his mother Inez’s maiden name. The swapping of Andre and Silvano was yet another nod to the image he was trying to create in America. and In Northern Italy, the seemingly ever-present vowel at the end of names tends not to be present, so not Marino as it might be in the South, but Marin as it is in the North. He used the California pronunciation of the name (Ma-rin) rather than the East Coast pronunciation (Ma-rin), which seems to come to the area via Puerto Rico or some such Hispanic origin. In any case, it was when I returned home from Camp Red Arrow in Northern Wisconsin that my mother laid the reality on me that my new name was Richard Albert Marin.
That was strange news to me. My identity was invested in Prosdocimi. Not only were my initials RAP (then yet to be a way cool word), but my nickname was Pros. You see, midwesterners pronounced my last name as Pras-doe-simi as opposed to Pros-do-chimi. The kidifcation of the name was Post-Toasties in honor of one of Battle Creek’s more notable breakfast cereals. There was no doubt that Marin was a much easier name to carry through life than Prosdocimi and I quickly became quite happy with it. Where everyone who hears Prosdocimi wants to guess its origins (never thinking to guess Italy), no one ever bothers with Marin. Marin sounds…..American. It could be from the Hispanic, from the French (Ma-ran, as in from the sea) or it could even be from Italy if you altered it to Marino. I have no idea how the name Marin, versus Prosdocimi, altered the trajectory of my life, but I venture to guess that it was far more positive than negative.
Somewhere along the way I also realized that my initials were RAM and no longer RAP. RAM was a set of initials you could be proud of. RAM tough. Like all kids, at some point or another you spend some time scribbling your initials or testing out what sort of signature you will have. It starts with complicated swirls and flourishes and devolves quickly with real adult use to a more functional and scratched signature that can be thrust on paper quickly. I’m not sure I completely trust someone who signs their name so that you can properly read each letter. That seems so Third Grade to me. My signature used to be R A M——- done in such a way as to resemble RAZ (or so my son always said). I have modified it to scrawl out a very vertical Richard and pretty much kept the AZ in tact. As Farmer Hoggett in Babe says, that’ll do pig.
When my oldest son and first child was born, my wife and I went through the normal machinations of selecting a name. Since she was hoping for a girl, I don’t think she spent much time considering boys names. We hit upon Roger for several reasons. First of all, it was a rather traditional American name, one that wasn’t so much in popular use at the time. Then there was my early boss, Roger Martin, who was a kooky but likable guy with a name I had ringing in my ears for a few years. I very specifically requested an A-based middle name so that my son could have the benefit of the same initials I owned, RAM. Strangely enough, the thought that came through my head was less about heritage since I had only had those initials since 1962, and more about my ability to will him all my monogrammed stuff like leather boxes and such. I was weirdly proud of the initials RAM and it seemed appropriate to pass that along to son Roger.
Thirteen years later, a full six years after Roger’s mother and I separated and divorced, I was due for a new child with my second wife. When I broke the news to Roger and his sister Carolyn, always a tense fatherly moment in the life of a modern family, Roger said that was all fine so long as I didn’t give him (if it was a boy) the initials RAM. That seemed like an easy request to honor for many reasons. First of all, I doubted my second wife would try to have me pass along my initials and I doubted I was likely to have much say in the choice of names. He was born Thomas Stuart Marin. The Thomas was almost Michael in good Irish tradition (she had been an O’Connor), but we somehow settled on Thomas, which is what we called him his whole life until during college when he suddenly became Tom. The Stuart was a family name of hers, which sounds more Scottish (they spell it Stewart), but is actually the Francophile version of the Scottish name. In any case, it was a long way from RAM.
Back in 1996 when I transacted for my Ithaca homestead and went about renovating it, I decided to shout out my RAMness by commissioning wood carved rams head plaques which I had gold-gilded and placed on the multiple peaks of the house and carriage house. It didn’t take long to wear thin and I wished I hadn’t added the affectation. I had steadfastly avoided monogrammed shirts for the same reason, it seemed ostentatious. But the rams heads were up, but luckily the gilding faded fast and they became less pronounced almost immediately. So I have lived with them up on the house peaks ever since. I will also confess to several artwork items in the house with rams heads on them. I cringe whenever I see them, but luckily, rams heads are ubiquitous enough in general that few people attribute them to my initials.
Several people do call me RAM as a nickname for this and that reason, but that cannot be helped. Generally, I am off finding cute little rams for myself, but even Kim occasionally buys me one. My recent exception is that I just bought a rusted steel bounding ram statue to place on the back hillside. It is in keeping with my wildlife theme (Bison, Hawk, California Grizzly Bear, Coyote, Chicken) out there, but mostly its about the rocky hillside and the characteristic of Bighorn Mountain Sheep that says strength in the wilderness and the ability to survive the harsh hillsides of the mountains. When I skied the big slopes for many years, I developed the nickname Ramski, which I have used in one form or another in digital passwords ever since. I think I will call my new ram, Ramski when he arrives.