Pride (in the Name of . . . "Fuchs"??)

As you might imagine, mine was not the easiest name to grow up with. I attribute any sense of humor I may lay claim to today to having grown up American with a name one letter away from the most multi-purpose curse word in the English lexicon. Where would Martin Scorcese, David Mamet and Quentin Tarantino be without it?

Some people with my last name probably grow up fighting all the time; that was never my style. My parents didn't encourage it. On the rare occasion that I would come home upset over some teasing I'd taken as a result of our shared last name, they would tell me to simply ignore it. And I did pretty well at that. But that didn't always work, so it was necessary to become skilled at sarcasm. Usually people didn't just come out and "call me" the F-word. For some reason, most would say, "Hey, did anyone ever tell you your last name looks like 'Fucks'?"

Playing to the crowd that was always there (because why else would anyone ask such a question, unless it was to get a reaction from the group), I would do a puzzled double-take and look up, as if picturing the two words in my head, side by side, for the first time. Then, in a moment of inspired acting, I would see it! "No, why? What -- wait a minute! You're right! Whoa, that is weird! You know, I think you may be the VERY FIRST PERSON to ever point that out to me. Thank you! Thank you for making me aware of that!" By the time I was done with this snide little monologue, I had the crowd laughing with me and at my harasser, so that the aggressor slunk away, red-faced, looking for less nimble victims of their unoriginal bullying.

I don't know whether it was because they got bored of such an unsatisfying mark, or because at a certain age "Dan Fucks" became a compliment rather than an insult, but eventually it stopped, and the next time I ever remember being concerned about it was when I started teaching in a public high school as a young man in my late twenties. I pictured the moment I wrote my name on the board for the first time and the snickering it would incite. Ironically, I ended up working in a school where the students called their teachers by their first names, and the students who wanted to take special ownership over me called me "Mr. Fuchs," since "Dan" was what all those other kids called me. Never once during my 15-year teaching career was my name defaced or ridiculed.

At least not that I'm aware of...

This may be a good time to explain the name's origins: The word Fuchs is German for "fox." My father's family owned a lumber company in Karlsruhe, Germany that was -- like many businesses owned by Jews at the time -- "nationalized" by the Nazi party. That's why my branch of the Fuchs family made its way over here to America.

As an adult, I now understand that I carry not only the name, but the struggles of my ancestors with it. I have developed such pride in my name that I decided, at age 40, to have a running fox tattooed onto my left bicep. My two boys have yet to be introduced to "the 'F' word" (though I've let it slip in their presence once or twice), and I'm sure that moment will arrive when they come sulking home after some hurtful comment from a classmate. They may even spend some time resenting me for giving them such a pain-in-the-ass name. I'll do my best to provide them with strategies to deal with the bullies and the jerks, and I'll never let them forget those brave souls who wore the name so proudly before they had their turn to do so.