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March 2001 Issue

Just Call Me Oscar Meyer

By Sharon Schatz

I was born a Weiner. Not a Y-ner, a Wee-ner. My parents named me Sharon Weiner and I lived with it until I was twelve years old.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Weiner is a semi-common Jewish last name and I was living in a predominantly Jewish community in Philadelphia. I got the occasional hotdog joke and even had a teacher who nicknamed me "Weiny," which I put an end to as quickly as possible, but it was never that big a deal.

Then, when I was nine, my family moved to one of the Florida keys. Key Biscayne is one of those beautiful beachy places (if you liked that sort of thing, which I did not), and its Jewish population was very low back then. I think there were about ten Jewish families on the whole island.

So, I started fifth grade as a newly Floridian Sharon Weiner. Let me tell you, Weiner is not the name you want, if you're the new, unathletic, shy girl with the wrong socks.

I can remember teachers looking at their roll sheets incredulously. "Sharon--Weiner?" The class always burst into hysterics and sometimes the teachers smirked along with them. The worst was when the regular teacher was out and we had a sub instead. You see, subs have a tendency to read each name on the entire roll sheet out loud, inevitably drawing attention to me. I remember hoping subs would just call out our first names, pronounce my name "Wy-ner" by mistake, or, best case scenario, overlook me completely. And that's who Floridian Sharon Weiner was--the girl who wanted to disappear.

Being Jewish only added to my "odd woman out" factor. I don't really remember a sense of prejudice. It was more that no one knew what being Jewish meant. On Rosh Hashanah, the principal announced over the P.A. system that today was "Russian Honnah," a Jewish holiday. Great. To my classmates, my association with "Russian Honnah" and not celebrating Christmas just added to my being different.

I remember a class assignment where we had to write an essay about what we were going to do on Christmas day. I was so fed up with my religion going unrecognized or no one having ever heard of it, that I wrote about how I planned on hanging out, going to the pool, and watching TV. Just another day. No big deal.

After two years of Florida Hell, my parents decided to move back to our hometown of Philadelphia. But this time we were moving to a new suburb--a city where no one knew me.

I'd had enough of this Weiner business and was ready for a change. I decided to take my stepfather's last name and I became Sharon Schatz. The name had a lot of shhh's in it, but it didn't have any hotdog or male anatomy connotations and that's all I cared about. The worst you can do with Schatz is pronounce it "shits," which, I still think is better than Weiner. Anything is better than Weiner.

When I had my name legally changed to Schatz, it was like Sharon Weiner had never existed. Of course, inside I was still Sharon Weiner, a girl with low self-esteem and limited fashion sense. I just had a prettier and more alliterate name. Making friends was easier because I actually related to my new schoolmates. About half of them were Jewish. And having the new name and the religion issue resolved, I adapted pretty well. As Sharon Schatz, I figured I could be anyone I wanted. Maybe I could even reinvent myself.

Interestingly, I later learned that "Schatz" is actually a made up name. A few generations back, the family name was "Kasch." My stepfather's great uncle came to this country from Poland at the turn of the century and changed his name, thinking "Schatz" sounded German. Apparently, German Jews were known for being well-educated and thus, more respected as compared to the Jews from Poland and Hungary. He wanted to change his name to change people's perceptions of him--just like I had.

In about three months, I will become Sharon Rosenthal and I wonder how the new name will change me. I'm no longer naive enough to think the name will change my personality, but it's definitely the most Jewish-sounding name I've ever had. It's also the prettiest last name I've ever had. And I like it's meaning: field of roses. For me, it also means "field of yarmulkes" because my fiancé is conservative and I plan to adhere to this new, more observant lifestyle.

I'm glad my current name and name-to-be don't conjure up images of frankfurters or anything resembling frankfurters, but I believe that my original last name helped shape who I am. And even if it is kind of funny, maybe it's not the worst thing in the world to have been a Weiner--because it means I get to be me.

Sharon Schatz is a writer/editor for a popular television network Web site. She is also a freelance writer based in Los Angeles.

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