after The Art Historian by Peter Williams
My mother, a classical actress, named me Gertrude Janine. She explained, from as young an age as I can remember, 'I was given that name in honor of a kind neighbor who helped her through a troubled childhood.' But from the first time I watched Hamlet, I believed otherwise. My mother has a history of performing impish acts, then feigning innocence. So when I saw the play Hamlet, which was on a junior high school field trip, and encountered Gertrude, that character, I felt the warm, prickly force of betrayal. To make things worse: my mother played the role of Gertrude; my mother was the entire reason our class went to see the play. She not only had the acting role, but also arranged our school's free tickets, and our bus transportation.

The response of my classmates? Because I was named Gertrude but (thank you mom) called Trudy, they did not have any reason to connect my name with that questionable character. And they thought it was impressive to have a parent who stood tall and got attention for something as unusual as acting.

After I saw the performance, I read and re-read the play, focusing on who I believed to be my namesake, Gertrude. The weak, easily led, Gertrude. This was the sort of mischief I understood my mother to make: say she named me after someone beloved since childhood, when really naming me after a famous literary figure, and not a heroine. When I asked my mom how could she name me after such an awful woman, she answered that I should not judge Shakespeare's character so harshly. Especially since I have never been a wife, a mother,  a widow, or a queen. And that the Gertrude she named me after was not that literary character (who she did play to acclaim on stage, though long after I was born), but a kind neighbor who left her a large sum of money when she died,

My mother had a rough childhood. Over the years I have heard the stories. Lack of parental attention, dirty floors and sinks, shabby clothing. A father who came home late, drunk, and smelling of perfume, a mother who responded by taking up night time gardening. Your grandmother was a gentle woman, but a ferocious gardener, my mother told me. She channeled her sadness, and humiliation at being cheated on and poor, and having the sickliest farm animals in the county into making and caring for her garden. No one could ever figure out when she did it, but I can tell you: she did it at night. I heard her go outside. Father, drunk, passed on the couch or floor,  never heard her. But I did. I watched her outside her bedroom window. If the night was pitch black I could not see, but knew she was working hard because I heard her breath, grunt. But if there was a full moon or a starry sky I could see. And it was astonishing to watch her little body crouch, dig, rise, cut, snip,  groom. All day long she was busy with regular farm jobs: feeding animals, picking fruit, digging vegetables,  bathing her family. But at night she worked on her own plot of land,  turning into something remarkably pretty. Gardening gave her, from a young age, a deeply bent back and hunched shoulders. She never had time for me, her only daughter, but our neighbor, Gertrude, did. She saw that I was uncared for. She saw that I did not like being outside or doing the dirty farm jobs. So she took me in. She taught me how to knit, sew, wash, and bake. My mother was never one to spend time inside. Gertrude  gave me small jobs (drying dishes, darning socks, polishing silver) and paid me enough to buy toothpaste, shoes, and notebooks. That is the woman you are named after, Trudy. If it were not for her I never would have gone to drama school, I would never have gone onto become a classical actress. If you do not believe me, well there is nothing I can do.

This is a very, very good story. But if you knew my mother the way I know my mother you may not believe it. You may still wonder if you were named after the weak literary character. I know I could travel to, or telephone, my mom' town, ask around, check records to learn if a woman named Gertrude lived anywhere near my grandparents. But that would mean dealing with data. And one thing I learned from my mother is this: finding and facing facts is not necessarily an approach that provides you with serious advantage, enriches your position, or lands you any closer to contentment.

Peter William's The Art Historian

by Lynn Crawford

 
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