Elise Juska on Finally Learning the True Story of Her Namesake

1.
On the first day of every new semester, I ask my students to write stories about their names. It’s an exercise that reliably generates discussion-worthy material: the reasons behind their naming (some familial; some symbolic; a smattering of homages to soap opera characters, musicians, and delivery nurses) or the way their feelings about their names have evolved over time. It’s a trusted opener, one that gets the class talking, making connections. But surely I also keep returning to it because I have a name story of my own.

My nickname, Ellie, came from my great-aunt Ellie Slocum. According to my parents, I wasn’t named for her, but they liked Ellie, and liked the name in part because they liked her. She was one of a trio of older relatives who celebrated holidays at my grandparents’ house in New Jersey, along with Dwight and Irene, two of my grandmother’s 11 siblings from northern Maine.

Irene I remember as bright and girlish: thick glittery rings, lavender hair, clip-on earrings the size of cotton balls, a musical laugh. As a child, I knew that her husband, Harry, had died too young, that everyone had loved him, and he was buried with their parakeet John John (so named for ) who used to stand on the table during dinner, eating