What's in a name?

Elizabeth is my given name; my legal name. It is the name on my birth certificate and the name that people called me until I was old enough to correct them. Well, sort of.

I remember playing at my friend Sarah’s house and when I was around five years old. Sarah called me Liz and I quickly scolded her.

“Only some people can call me Liz.”

I meant only my friends can call me Liz.

It wasn’t long thereafter that everyone was calling me Liz, at my insistence. I ditched Elizabeth for practical purposes and only my grandma was calling me Elizabeth. (She eventually got the memo when I was a teenager after I didn’t have the heart to correct her all those years.)

When Elizabeth was used, it was when I was in trouble and my middle name, Miriam, usually followed behind. Although since I was such a well-behaved child, the combination barely reared its head. I resented my name for being old (Queen Elizabeth), really ridiculously long to spell and say, and well, for just being my name. Doesn’t everyone hate their name at some point?

As for its age, to the average person, Elizabeth is old and historic. It is one of those names that carries a regal stature and never seems to go out of style, regardless of the weird names babies are given every day. But it’s even older than you might think. It doesn’t originate in England or with someone known for being a virgin (and a queen).

When I was in college, a roommate of mine who looked down on me for being less religiously observant than her once lamented,
“Elizabeth Foreman. That sounds like such a waspy name.”

What? Yea, ‘cause Foreman is so waspy, I thought. Please note I don’t like to use or perpetuate the phrase “WASP,” which stands for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. There’s nothing wrong with being in that category, but rather the connotation in which the term is often used is what is offensive.
I responded, “What? It’s not waspy at all. What are you talking about?
“Actually, Elizabeth comes from the Bible,” I continued.

Ha! I beat the yeshiva girl at her own game.

If you look up Elizabeth in any name book or frankly Google Elizabeth, it will read as meaning something to the effect of being “consecrated from God” and Hebrew in origin. Elisheva – Exodus 6:23. Elisheva was Aaron’s wife and consequently, sister-in law to Moses and Miriam. And Miriam is my middle name! Jewish royalty! Sort of.

When Mom and Dad named me, they toiled with an S instead of a Z, but legend has it that Dad thought people would spell it wrong so they stuck with the traditional Z. EliZabeth. And Mom insists I am not named after anyone, well my first name at least.

I still cannot avoid my abnormally long name for legal purposes. On standardized tests in school, I was inevitably Elizabet, because it would only accept 8 letters. Poor h was always cut off. I unconsciously hoped year after year that the upcoming test would leave space for 9 letters. Nope. Never. Somewhere in some drawer in New York State there are a lot of newsprint tests with No. 2 pencil marks bearing the name Elizabet Foreman. Or maybe in a lot of drawers. Or maybe they’ve been shreaded. I hope the latter.

And one day it became Liz, at least in every day practice. I still grapple with how I should be referred to professionally, but usually default to Liz. Those who slip in an Elizabeth every now-and-then at work give me anxiety (again, the whole being in trouble thing) and show a lack of attention to detail. But I’ll let it slide, because after-all, only my friends call me Liz.

The following are variations of my name, which I have been called. I’ll allow these for those who are stuck somewhere between Elizabeth and Liz.

Lizbip – my brother
Liza (read Leeza) – Greek neighbor
Aliza (read Aleeza) – Israelis, to whom lamed-yud-zion does not make sense
Eli (read Ellie) – unnamed co-worker
Htebazile – college roommates

I heart NY

I was 12. I was 12 when I fell in love with New York City. It was February and I was visiting my Great Aunt Pat in Chelsea with my mom. At the golden, yet awkward, age of 12 I was - you guessed it - in town shopping for Bar and Bat Mitzvah dresses to be prepared for many a Shabbat of the simchas of my peers, plus my own. It was an unseasonably warm February day and the tulip stems had begun to peak through the bed of dirt outside Aunt Pat's apartment building. Maybe the smell of spring caught me. Maybe it was the endless shopping. Maybe it was the hustle and bustle. Whatever it was, I fell in love with New York and vowed to return.

Fast-forward ten years to New Jersey. I was finishing up my final semester at Rutgers University and commuting two days a week into Manhattan for an unpaid internship. I would wake up at 6:00 AM, hustle in my heels, sometimes through freshly fallen snow on Stone Street and Easton Ave., down to the New Brunswick train station, and an hour and a half later, I would arrive on the 36th floor of 350 Fifth Avenue. (You should Google 350 Fifth Avenue. OK, OK. It's the Empire State Building.) I was impressed by the revolving doors and excited that I could sneer at the tourists and be the cool one who was going inside. The truth is there was nothing glamorous about the entire experience, except that it was an experience. Whenever I smell burnt rubber I automatically associate it with New Jersey Transit train I would inhabit for two plus hours each day. I was also working in a gritty part of New York. The Fashion District isn't exactly a part of New York to be proud of. It's dirty, smelly, overcrowded, full of annoying tourists, but I kind of love it. Okay, I have a love/hate relationship with the Fashion District.

The goal with the internship was to land a job. April arrived and I had no job. I was graduating on May 18 and I gave myself one option: New York City. Oh, yea, a job and New York City. I applied and applied. Suddenly I found a friend who also wanted to move to New York. And she had a friend who was also in New York and wanted to move. And then suddenly one day we all met up and looked at apartments. We talked about living in Manhattan. But "talked about" was as far as it got. We walked around Park Slope. And somehow we meandered our way to Astoria on the G train. (This was my first and last experience with G train!!) We called a landlord for a place we found on Craig's List. It was a dream apartment. But, you can't sign at the first place you see, no? We looked somewhere else and realized this was a steal. A few days later, we were sealed. I signed the lease without a job.

A few days later, I got a job offer, which I accepted. And on May 18 I graduated. And on May 19 I moved into my apartment on 30th Ave. in Astoria. This coming Friday, I will move out of this very apartment and into my own place sans roommates. After nearly three years in the most wonderful city in the world, I have discovered more reasons why I love New York and many reasons that I never would have known had I lived in Manhattan all this time. Allow me to share...

• When the TV is off, I can often hear the brakes of the subway car and the next stop announcement for "Broadway" on a Manhattan-bound train from inside my apartment. Love it...
• The smelly fresh fish market across the street from the storefront with dead chickens hanging from the window display, down the street from Zagat-rated Ovelia.
• Hearing at least four different languages on my street at any given time.
• The view of the Manhattan skyline at night after the turn following Queensboro Plaza. Nothing beats a view of the lit-up Empire State Building and Chrysler Building.
• In the morning sunlight, right before the 7 train turns into Hunters Point. The multi-color graffiti in Long Island City, PS1 and the midtown Manhattan skyline in background. Sprinkle in a few Long Island City high rises to ruin the Manhattan view.
• Getting body-slammed nearly every morning transferring from the N train at Queensboro Plaza. The people who ride the 7 train are tough and forget that in order to get on the train, others need to get off first.
• Noticing a sharp demographic shift when leaving the N train and boarding the 7.

A Culture of Debt

Fighting the cold on a blustery March morning, I walked into my bank on Third Avenue. I was greeted by a bank employee. Once she found out the reason for my visit, we went to her desk. While processing my request, she noticed on my account that I have been pre-approved for a credit card that the bank offers.

This bank tells me literally every time I make a transaction, whether with a teller or at the ATM, that I have been pre-approved for this very credit card. I always say “no, thanks.” I already have a credit card with this bank and I have no desire for another card. I pay my bill in full every month, so what would be the purpose of another bill to pay, another thing to keep track of, something else to worry about in an already busy and pressing world?

Realistically for me, the only impetus to open a new account would be to close my previous account. The card being offered has slightly different features than my current card, offering a larger amount of points on purchases that I make frequently, while my current card offers just one point per dollar spent. More points would equal more gift cards I can select from or a larger amount of cash back, at the end of the day. I told her it sounds enticing, but that I am preparing to move in the coming weeks and could not spare the hassle of canceling one account and opening another at this time. I would consider it in a few months.

The bank employee countered that there would be no harm in opening an additional credit card.

“Do you shop on the net?” She asked.

“Yes,” I responded. Who doesn’t?

“Well most people have a separate credit card for purchases on the net, so if there are ever any problems with the card, they know it comes from the net.”

I have never met anyone who has admitted to having a separate credit card for online purchases. Anyone who pays attention to their credit card statement should not need to have a separate card to check for fraudulent purchases. That is perhaps one of the stupidest justifications for having an additional card I have heard.

She then added that another additional card is helpful to prevent overdraft of another account.

“I don’t overdraft,” I quickly asserted. “And I have good credit and want to keep it that way. I have no reason for having an additional credit card.”

“Well, actually, you can have up to seven credit cards before it is bad for your credit,” she responded.

Seven. 7.

As shocking as the number seven is, I had heard this before. There must be some validity to this statement. For someone single with few expenses like me, there is no reason whatsoever to have so many credit cards.

It was at this moment that a man came over to the cubicle and introduced himself as one of the bank managers. He had heard the tale end of the “seven credit card” thing and reinforced that it is in fact good to have several credit card accounts open. Up to seven. He boasted that it is good for your credit.

“I have excellent credit. It doesn’t make sense to me why I should take on the responsibility of paying and keeping track of another bill when I simply do not need it. To me, this seems like this culture is the reason why we are in such a financial mess right now.”

I don’t pretend to be an economist and openly admit I am often miffed by some of the things going down (literally) in both the US economy and in the world; however, I understand the basics. Homeowners and potential homeowners were offered irresponsible loans by a variety of parties interceding for the banks, which ultimately supplied this money. Other firms “bet” on these loans and on the firms backing these loans, homeowners were unable to pay and it spun out of control. However you would like to characterize this as spiraling up, trickling down or simply causing a chain-reaction, our economy is in trouble stemming from irresponsible loans. Debt.

At some point the money had to run out. And while I have a lot of issues with bailouts, stimulus packages, tax relief, etc., etc., etc., I am not taking issue with that here.

The American culture has a serious problem with promoting debt. We are working hard to find recovery for large American companies that are serious trouble, but we have no plan in place to reinforce the culture of debt.

Banks earn their money off of loan and credit card fees and interest rates and yes, this is their business. Their bread and butter. But I have a credit card already. Should it be continually pushed in my face? Shouldn’t I be rewarded for being responsible?

The bank manager and I delved into a conversation about the financial crisis and who was at fault. I told him that consumers should not be lead onto a path where they have to pay off several credit cards. I reasserted that this culture of debt is the reason why banks are in trouble.

“Not this bank,” he told me, following to list four other banks that landed on their feet despite what has transpired the last few months.

“Right now I am fortunate to have no debt. I have few expenses: I don’t own a car, I don’t own a house. I pay my bills completely every month. But one day, I will buy a car, I will buy a house and I will go to graduate school and I will need loans for all of those things. And now, because of other people’s irresponsibilities, it will be even more difficult for me to get a reasonable loan. Even though I am responsible and pay off my purchases when they are due, I will pay the price. And that is not fair.”

Fortunately by this point I received a receipt for my transaction and it was time to leave. We shook hands and off I went.


Fixing the current economic crisis in the manner in which they are doing it will only result in the treatment of the symptoms of the problem. If on this day in March I am still told I can open seven credit card accounts without problem, we did not learn the lessons of the last few months. In the long-term, we need to target the root cause. We are in a culture of debt, and the lenders encourage dishonesty.