Editor’s Note: Meet Jewfolk’s newest columnist, Karen Galatz, an award-winning journalist, columnist, and blogger. Her Matzo Chronicles column appears in California, Colorado, and now Minnesota. She also writes Muddling through Middle Age, a “Top 100” humor blog that provides women (and men) of a certain age a light-hearted look at the perils and pleasures of growing older.
After naming three boys for deceased relatives, my mother was ready to rebel. Finally, having gotten her wish for a daughter (me), she refused to be bound by tradition when choosing my name. So, with a passing apology to the widow of my father’s recently deceased brother, Mom went wild. She picked “exotic,” “foreign” names for bouncing baby me.
Karen Galatz, the author of The Matzo Chronicles column.
The result: I, Karen Michelle, joined the Galatz clan, bearing not even a Hebrew name for the late Irving – nor any other deceased relative.
My mother thought the mix of Swedish and French names was unique and lively. She knew not one Karen. And no American Michelle. And thus, she reasoned, unlike my brothers – Neil, Malcolm and Henry – I would not suffer multiple hands being raised in school when my name was called.
Little did she know that the name Karen would skyrocket in popularity in the late 1950s and 1960s. In fact, in 1965, it was the third most popular name for baby girls in the U.S. So much for unique. So much for exotic.
And, of course, little did she (or little me) know that the name would crater in popularity in 2020 as a meme – a pejorative meme – for privileged, middle-aged women, who are racist, anti-vaxxers, climate change deniers, and other nasty no-good things.
But I’m jumping ahead.
In the way, way back good old Biblical-ish days, the name Karen had lovely, positive meanings. Keren is Hebrew and means “ray of light.” Karen is also German and means “hard worker.” It is similar to the Sanskrit name “Kiran” which means “sunbeam.”
Yet, despite those sunny beginnings, today, Generation Z – those born in 1997 and later – lambast a whole generation of people, females in particular, by calling them “Karens.”
My once oh-so-popular name is not only pilloried by Gen Z-ers, but by lawmakers too. A few years ago, a San Francisco elected official wanted to “immortalize” a version of the name into law. He introduced the CAREN (Caution Against Racially Exploitative Non-Emergencies) Act to change the city code to punish people who call 911 and file racially biased complaints.
There’s even a play about my now problematic appellation and oh, how this breaks my theater-loving heart! Titled Karen, I Said, the play begins with a 38-year-old white woman – Karen, of course – calling the police on a man of color for delivering a meat lasagna instead of the vegetarian option she ordered. The New York Times called the piece, written and performed by Eliza Bent, a “wicked 45-minute satire on wokeness.” I’m just calling it (admittedly sight unseen) wicked!
I had hoped the mean Karen memes and the overall mean Karen moment would pass quickly, but it hasn’t. Just this year, two film projects bear the name prominently in their titles, including an indie camp/horror film, Karen: The Beauty Queen Butcher.
I used to think I was thick-skinned, immune to cat-now Karen-calling insults. But the non-stop mean memes, movies, and such have taken a toll. So, sadly, I’m thinking of going by a different name.
Thanks – or no thanks – to my rebellious mother, I don’t have a Hebrew name. So, that’s not an option.
I could go by my middle name, Michelle. There are advantages to this:
- I genuinely adore the name. When the Beatles penned the song “Michelle,” I practically wore the album down, playing it non-stop on my record player.
- Several people already call me versions of my middle name. My husband says Mish. My brother does too, or sometimes Michelle-o.
But at my age, officially changing my name seems complicated. Will my friends remember it? Will I remember it?
Meanwhile, thinking about that decades-old maternal naming rebellion raises troubling religious questions. Is this current mean Karen meme my family’s fault? Is it some sort of Ashkenazic version of Karma? Divine retribution for my mother’s refusal to name me after my late Uncle Irving? Are Irving and his late wife, Minnie, may they rest in peace, taking revenge for Mom’s failure to honor tradition?
Looking back, how awful would it have been if I had been named Irene or Imelda or Isadora – or even Ivanka?
Still, hindsight is 20/20. All I can do is hope that the Karen meme eventually becomes passé. From my computer to God’s ear.
Until then, I take small comfort in something my beloved father used to say: “You can call me anything. Just don’t call me late to the dinner table!”
You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.