When Your Name Needs a Manual

I was born with a typo. The ceramic birth tile at home proudly displays the year 1950, while according to the municipal archives, I was born in 1951. A small mistake, but back then, so soon after the war, you simply had to move on. Fortunately, the name was spelled correct: Gustaaf Adolph van Zijderveld. When I pronounce my name at a counter or checkpoint, I’m met with blank stares. People would much rather hear ‘Jan’: you too, admit it. Wouldn’t you frown at Adolph? If not, you deserve a round of applause for your acting skills. Now, if you could just silence your phone, I’ll explain.
In 1917, my father was born as Gustaaf Adolph van Zijderveld. At the time, no one could have imagined that a German politician (notably without the ‘Gustaaf’) would later become infamous under a similar name. I inherited my father’s full name, as if rehearsing for someone I would never become. And no, put that phone away, I’m not done yet. Notice the spelling: Adolph with ph. My ancestors made sure to keep that German politician out of the spotlight: after all, he had been ‘celebrated’ quite enough. Family tradition, it seems, won out over that little quarrel with the neighbors.
At counters, I usually hand over a small, illustrated treatise on my name, it saves time. At Ben-Gurion Airport, I take a lighter approach: ‘I’m named after the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus the Great, also known as the Lion of the North.’ That usually opens doors and barriers.

Now, the Second Misunderstanding. My everyday name, Gudo (a fusion of Gustaaf and Adolph) brings fresh confusion. Some people, even after years of acquaintance, stubbornly keep calling me Guido. Nothing helps. Foreigners give it their best shot: sometimes it comes out as ‘Rrudo,’ sometimes accompanied by heroic choking sounds: ‘Chgudo.’
As I write this, my phone rings. I pick up.
‘Goedo?’
Not bad — for an Indian call center.