A few years ago I was working for a telecommunications company as secretary to the Operations Manager.  Part of my role was to organise all the paper work, computer logins and orientation for any new employee that joined the department.  In this particular instance I was to arrange everything for a new customer service representative called Clare.

Monday arrived and the lovely Clare was sitting waiting in the foyer.

My phone rang, it was reception.

The new lady is here.

I walked downstairs and towards Clare, my hand outstretched ready to shake hers.

Hi, Clare, I’m Sarah.  I’ll be helping you to settle in today and you will meet with John later.

Anais,” Clare said.

I’m sorry?” I said, not sure what she meant.

My name is Anais.

I looked at my paper work.  Her ID badge clearly said “Clare”.  I looked at her, confused.  Had they employed someone else without telling me?

I changed it, my name.  By deed poll.

I had no idea what to say.

My parents chose my name, and I haven’t spoken to them in 10 years.  I never really liked the name they chose.  This job is a new start for me, so I thought ‘why not completely reinvent myself?’ and so I changed my name.  I named myself Anais, after Anais Nin.

She had also changed her surname to some equally exotic name – all traces of her old life erased.  Well, on paper at least.  I suspect a lot of what caused her to change her name would live with her for many years to come.

I nodded, admittedly dumbfounded, and took her upstairs.  I listened to her repeat the story at least 10 times that day to various people who were expecting “Clare”.

I was named after my great-grandmother.  My mother didn’t know her grandmother.  She had died young, aged just 56, the year my mother was born, but a scandal surrounded her.

The story goes that she was a domestic servant in a manor house, almost certainly not as grand as Downton Abbey, but a manor house none the less.  The family legend says that my grandmother came about as a result of a tryst between Sarah and the lord of the manor.  So strong was this rumour, and the resulting shame she felt because of it, that my grandmother had all evidence of her birth cremated with her when she died.

There are no details of Sarah’s mother, only her father, Charles.

This is my great grandmother Sarah, my namesake, taken I would say around the 1920s
This is my great grandmother Sarah, my namesake, taken I would say around the 1920s

My mom grew up listening to stories about Sarah:

Sarah had to return to work.  She had no alternative.  It is not clear if she returned to the original manor house.  My grandmother, as a consequence, was brought up in a convent, by nuns, until the age of 17.  Up until the age of 5, she had been looked after her aunt and uncle, who by all accounts had not cared for her that well.  My grandmother loved the convent, but saw Sarah very little.

My grandmother unsurprisingly became such a devout catholic that she was on course to become a nun herself when she met my grandfather.  Sadly, the shame surrounding her birth never ever left her.

But my mother fell in love with Sarah.

There was never any question that I was going to be named after her.

I think my mom had this idea that Sarah had been manipulated, that the power the lord of the manor had over her had resulted in my grandmother, that Sarah would have been poor, alone and without means.  It wasn’t an uncommon story of the time.

Somehow an injustice had taken place.  And somehow Sarah’s memory was going to live on in me.

For the longest time I did not like my name.  It was so plain.  I couldn’t shorten it.  I never got a nickname and god, I so wanted a nickname – a cool one like Tif or Kat or Shell.  There was no term of endearment for me.  I lamented how ordinary Sarah was.  And when I met Clare-now-Anais I so desperately wanted an exotic name too.

Yet, as I got older, became more aware, I realised that Sarah, the person, ran in my veins.  And I knew that I was her immortality.  I have no idea what she was like as a person, but I do know she was a survivor.  I know that she gave her daughter up to nuns who would care for her at a time when orphanages would have been the easy option.  I know that Sarah would have had to pay for that care.

I know that through that care my grandmother turned into a woman who, despite years of struggles and ill health, was kind and good and was adored by her family.  I know she gave birth to my mother who likewise was adored.

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My grandmother (second from the left) with my mom on her wedding day and my aunt and uncle


I know that my mother felt indignant at the shame the catholic church imposed on my grandmother, a shame that never left her, a shame that would reverberate for 60 years until my grandmother’s death, despite the catholic church excommunicating her because my grandfather left her for another woman.

And I know my mother instilled in me an incredibly strong sense of social justice, to question those in power constantly, to keep an eye out for the marginalised and disempowered, especially women.

I know that starting with Sarah a long line of strong women began, women who don’t give up, who persevere and who survive.

I know that as I stand here today, Sarah is a name of which I am very proud.  It carries with it a life line, a heritage that, rather than shame, fills me with pride.  It is the name that my mom uttered as she lay dying,  calling out to my grandmother whom she could seen in her last few days.  It is a name that has come to mean so much for over 120 years.

What is in a name?  A new life, perhaps, like Clare?  Or perhaps a vindicated link to an old one.  What do you think?

How about you, do you like your name?  Were you named after someone?  Have you changed it?

Until next time,

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Human Rights

You can stop the wars now, we’re all related

Did you know we are all related?  It’s true.  Every single one of us anatomically modern human beings is genetically related.

I know, I didn’t think so either, but, dear friend, it is true.

It transpires that within our bodies we have floating around in us DNA that carry genetic markers.  Lots of them.  And by studying these markers, geneticists are able to determine your ancestory dating back thousands and thousands of years.  From studying your blood, you can create a map of how your particular kin migrated, over thousands of years, to where you were born.

And, it turns out, every single one of us has a marker that links us, in an unbroken genetic line, to just one woman – Mitochondrial Eve – who lived in East Africa.

{As a side note, I hate the fact that they called her Eve – yes, after the biblical woman of the same name.  It is like the christians have laid claim to her despite the fact that she existed some 198,000 years before chritianity was even a thing.  Why couldn’t they call her another name, an African name for instance, since she came from Africa.  I’m going to call her Elaine, after my mom.)

I love this on so many levels.

Firstly, it certainly means that all the wars being waged right now are ridiculous and should be stopped immediately.  All they are doing is killing their kin.  Which, okay, humans have been doing since, well, Elaine, apparently.

It also means that racism is a bit of a moot subject.

It also means that the idea of god’s chosen people is also standing on shaky ground.

But what I love most is that it is the matrilineal line that has survived this long, not the patriarchal line.   That gives me so much hope.  And strength.  Knowing that it is the maternal line that courses through each one of us.  All the female oppression that goes on throughout the world, and we are all carrying her mitochondrial DNA.  It has a sweetness about it, don’t you think?

The mapping of the human genome means that further study will only result in more specificity of our ancestory down the track.  I love that too.

I was watching Eddie Izzard in The Journey of Mankind.  He could trace his matrilineal line right from Africa, to The Yemen, to Istanbul, to the Vikings, to England, across thousands of years.  As humans migrated and colonised, our genetic DNA was creating, and continues to create, a map that will last for an eternity.  We are living maps of the history of man!  And in actuality, a part of us will live on forever, assuming man doesn’t annihilate itself (which, sadly, is somewhat of a possibility).

Think about that the next time you are speaking to your best friend who you really wished was your brother or sister.  Turns out you really are (somewhat diluted perhaps) related.

Are you fascinated?  I know I am.  I’ve asked for Genetic Genealogy for christmas.

Until next time,

SHW Signature