Those words bounced around in my head all through school. They stuck with me while I walked home and the whole afternoon. I don’t know how I know that my parents kept the name I was born with—I don’t remember ever being told; it’s just a fact of my existence, like my birthday being June 15.
But it had to be a good sign that my parents kept my name—Jaime’s too; that was the name he was given in Guatemala. After all, if they wanted us to completely forget that we were born to different parents, they would have changed our names.
That wasn’t the only thing, though. I wanted to know more about my ethnic background, right? I hadn’t found the answer in the mirror, or in that old Children of the World book, or even in the filing cabinet under IMANI—ADOPTION. But maybe I’d been focusing on the wrong part of the label on that empty folder. Instead of looking up stuff about ADOPTION, maybe I could look up stuff about IMANI.
I went online first thing after dinner—the rest of my family was still in the kitchen, so I wasn’t being too sneaky—and googled people named imani. I clicked to search for images. That’s what I wanted to see first.
Suddenly, a whole screen of faces was looking at me. Girls and women, all shades of black and brown, with hair that was curlier or straighter than mine, and noses that were smaller or bigger, and teeth that were straighter or more crooked, and eyes that were lighter or darker or rounder or more angled. I scrolled and scrolled, staring at all these Imanis, their black and brown and almost familiar faces staring back at me. My birth mother might have looked something like the women on the computer screen. Or maybe she didn’t, but she had something in common with them, at least. Enough to give me the name Imani without caring that it’d take teachers a few tries to say it correctly, without an invisible question mark at the end.
Back to Google. A regular search this time.
what kind of name is imani
The answer popped up in a neat little box at the top of the search results.
Given Name IMANI. USAGE: Eastern African, Swahili, African American. Means “faith” in Swahili, ultimately of Arabic origin.
I read the words hungrily, then again slowly, then once more out loud, in a whisper: “Eastern African, Swahili, African American.”
My thumb tapped a drumbeat against the desk, quick and then slow. That didn’t really answer much, did it? I already knew my birth mother was black. I’d always assumed she was African American, but was she actually from Eastern Africa? Were her ancestors? And what about “ultimately of Arabic origin”? Arabic is different from Swahili.
I tried not to get overwhelmed as I scrolled down the list of results. The word faith appeared a lot. That box said imani means “faith” in Swahili, and another result said that it was from the Arabic word for faith, iman. One site said it’s a Muslim name for a girl who has a strong belief in Allah, which totally threw me. If I hadn’t been adopted, would I be preparing for a Muslim coming-of-age ceremony instead of a bat mitzvah?
That made me remember something else: Doesn’t my Hebrew name, Emunah, mean “faith” too? I googled it. Sure enough, I was right. Emunah sounds a lot like Imani. What did that mean?
My breathing picked up in pace as I began to get frustrated. Who’s to say my name held any answers at all? Most people just pick a baby name they like. It’s not as if my birth mother sat there thinking, I know! I’ll pick a name that provides a concise historical summary of my daughter’s genetic makeup.
I googled meaning of name madeline as an experiment. The box at the top told me that Madeline comes from Magdalene, like Saint Mary Magdalene. My back slouched in the desk chair. That showed just how reliable a name is in terms of your race or religion. Madeline—my Jewish best friend—was obviously not named for some Christian saint. But Magda probably was, which meant a name could hold important clues, and maybe mine did too.
Some laughter drifted in from the kitchen. When it’s my night to clean up dinner, I load the dishwasher so fast my dad stresses that I’ll accidentally smash a plate. (I won’t. I’m fast but in total control.) When it’s Jaime’s turn, like tonight, he runs the sponge over every inch of every dish, and it turns into social hour, with him and my parents hanging out and chatting like BFFs. Their laughter meant I could probably go over my allotted thirty minutes of screen time without being found out.
I took a deep breath and tried one more time, this time typing imani faith. Google suggested I add Kwanzaa celebration. My eyebrows rose. Kwanzaa?
A random memory bubbled up from deep inside my brain: In first or second grade, everyone was supposed to bring in an object from home for a school-wide holiday party. I brought a Chanukah menorah that I’d made at Hebrew school using little tiles for a base and metal bolts to hold candles. I remember being really excited to show off my menorah, and to stuff myself full of holiday desserts. But when my class arrived in the cafeteria for the party, a teacher I didn’t know assumed my menorah was for Kwanzaa, and she said she’d bring a group of her students to me to learn about my holiday. Too scared or shy to correct her—and totally freaked out at the prospect of talking to a bunch of older kids about a holiday I knew nothing about—I told my teacher I had a stomachache. I left my menorah with her and spent the rest of the party in the nurse’s office, curled up on a row of small chairs.
Pushing that memory aside with a quick shake of my head, I pressed ENTER to see what imani faith kwanzaa celebration was all about.
Kwanzaa is an African-American holiday that celebrates the seven traditional values of African culture: Umoja (unity), Kujichagulia (self-determination), Ujima (collective work and responsibility), Ujamaa (cooperative economics), Nia (purpose), Kuuma (creativity), and Imani (faith). Each of the seven days of Kwanzaa is dedicated to one of the principles.
“What are you looking at, sweetie?”
I didn’t panic that my mom was there, but I didn’t not panic either. I guess the dishwashing party ended early tonight. “Um,” I said. Just tell the truth, right? This could be a test to see how she might react to tougher questions, questions about my birth parents. “I was looking up my name,” I told her. “Did you know that imani means ‘faith’ in Swahili?”
I watched Mom’s face to see if her eyebrows would go up or down. It was like I was in science class, recording the color change of a piece of litmus paper. This result was better than I could have hoped: One eyebrow up!
“Really?” Mom said, sounding genuinely interested. “Your Hebrew name means ‘faith’ too. They must come from the same root.”
“Yeah!” I said. “They probably do.”
Mom kneeled down and squinted at the screen. “What’s this?”
“Kwanzaa,” I replied, without even a twitch of nerves. If this conversation continued going this well, I might have the courage to go all the way and bring up my controversial bat mitzvah gift request. It felt so much better in this moment than when I was underneath the desk, snooping and lying. Had I totally misjudged my mom? Maybe I’d been so nervous for nothing!
I said, “Did you know that imani—well, faith—is one of the seven principles of Kwanzaa?”
Mom read aloud from the screen: “The Imani principle teaches us to have confidence in ourselves, our parents, teachers, leaders, and community.” She paused, then looked at me and smiled. “Neat.” Then she stood up, kissed my forehead, and started to walk away.
Have confidence in ourselves and our parents . . . “Hey, Mom,” I called.
She turned back around.
Just say it, Imani. “For my bat mitzvah, I was wondering if maybe . . .”
Mom waited, both eyebrows up. Her face had brightened at the mention of my bat mitzvah, like all her pride and dreams and hopes and imani were wrapped up in her little girl continuing this Jewish family tradition. And sure, she was cool about me looking up the meaning of my name, but looking up the meaning of my name was totally different from looking for the mother who gave it to me, and bringing that up right now would sucker-punch all of the joy right out of this mom—the one who takes care of me every single day.
All of that confidence from a few seconds ago was gone. I couldn’t ask to find my birth parents. Not right now, anyway.
“For your bat mitzvah, you were wondering . . .” Mom prompted.
“I was wondering if I could learn more about . . . Luxembourg,” I finished. “Like, research it for my Holocaust project.”
Mom looked happy before, but now she was a full-on hearts-for-eyes emoji. “Because of Grandma Anna?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s where she was from, right?”
“Yes, Luxembourg.” Mom’s hand was over her heart. No joke. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Imani. I know hardly anything about Luxembourg myself.”
“Me neither,” I said. I turned back to the computer and replaced the page about Kwanzaa with a search for Luxembourg. Mom came and tapped for me to slide over so we could share the chair.
Together, we found Luxembourg on a map of Europe. It was a small dot of a country squished between France, Belgium, and Germany. Then Mom took over the mouse to pull up some facts: the population (549,680 people), the size (998.6 square miles), the languages (Luxembourgish, German, and French).
“Here, I have an idea,” I said. I went back to Google and clicked to see images. “Now we’re talking.” The pictures were like something straight out of a fairy tale. Stone castles on lush green hills. Winding streets lined with skinny yellow and pink houses. A long stone bridge with dramatic arches under it, crossing a glassy river.
“Breathtaking,” Mom said.
It would have sounded cheesy if it weren’t true. Who knew places actually look like this outside of Disney World? It was like the people who lived there should be permanently dressed for the Renaissance fair.
“How old was Grandma Anna when she left?” I asked, trying not to let on that I already knew the answer.
“About your age, I think. She came to America all by herself. Can you imagine that? Being your age and going to a new country all by yourself?”
I got a sudden pang of nervousness, like a pinprick in my side. I could tell that Mom knew something about Grandma Anna’s family, and I didn’t want to know what it was. Not yet.
“She came to escape the Holocaust, you know,” Mom said. “She got out just in time.”
The pinprick got sharper, and I realized that deep down, I already knew the ending, and I didn’t want Mom to confirm it. But it was too late. I’d opened the can of worms, and Mom was going to take the slimy things out.
“The rest of her family died in the camps.”
I closed my eyes. There it was.
Mom took in a breath, and I waited for her to start crying. But when I opened my eyes, I saw that the breath was actually a gasp. She’d enlarged a photo of the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg and was marveling at her gown. “This dress is beautiful, don’t you think? I love the color.”
I couldn’t believe it. A sappy commercial would make Mom sniffle, but the sad fate of Anna’s family—her own family—barely registered a blip. I wondered about my other mother, the one I came so close to bringing up just a few minutes ago. Did that mother feel sad when she thought about me? Or did none of it even register anymore?
“I could see you wearing something like this for your bat mitzvah,” Mom said.
The weight of everything I’d just learned was piling up, and I suddenly felt very tired, like Anna sleeping-sleeping-sleeping on the ship. The very last thing I wanted to do was look at clothes. Especially with my mom—shopping with her is the worst. I groaned.
Mom chuckled and patted my knee. “Okay. But we will have to go dress shopping eventually.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh.
Mom stood up, and the whole chair was once again mine. The spot where she’d been sitting was warm. “I’m glad you’re researching our family history,” she said.
I thought of the journal in my Converse All-Star box, hidden under my bed. How seventy-five years ago, Anna was starting a new life while the rest of her family was going to die in a concentration camp. And I thought about that blond girl I played in singles a couple weeks ago, the obnoxious one who said, “You might have this amazing history you don’t know about.”
“Me too,” I told Mom.
Saturday, 13 September 1941
t. August 1950
Dear Belle,
It is Shabbat.
Our cousins observe the Sabbath, not like our family. On Friday nights before supper, Hannah lights candles and we drink wine and eat challah, saying prayers in Hebrew with Uncles Egg and Onion. Then on Saturday mornings, all the men walk to shul. I don’t mean only Max and his uncles, but rather all the men in Bensonhurst. I watch them out the window, filing down the street in suits and hats, probably talking about business, even though it is supposed to be against the rules to do any sort of work on Shabbat. The women break the rules too. Today, Hannah drew the curtains and is using the Hoover on the floors!
She said, “I hope this doesn’t offend you, Anna. Does your family observe the Sabbath very strictly?”
I assured her it is fine and said I used to go to the cinema. I searched for the words to describe that sometimes we’d see two films in a row, and Hannah laughed when she figured it out. Here is how you say it: double feature.
Hannah explained that the neighborhood is very religious, so we must “keep up appearances.” She warned me not to tell the uncles, though I know better than to do that. I never speak to the uncles anyway.
Now we sit in the dark apartment with freshly cleaned carpets. Hannah has put on the radio (quietly, so the neighbors won’t hear) and is looking through a magazine. I write in this journal and wonder how many neighbors are just “keeping up appearances.” Are they pretending to observe Shabbat for our sake, when really we don’t mind?
I wager God doesn’t mind either. He has his hands full with everything going on in Europe. I hope he’s not wasting his time with Jews who Hoover the floor on the day of rest.