As a boy, I spent a great deal of time with my Norwegian grandparents, Olaf and Kari. The “farm” was only two miles south of the store so visits were frequent and sleepovers were regular occurrences. Gramma had several albums full of black and white pictures of family and friends back “home” in Norway’s Jostedal Valley. I would spend many hours sitting beside her on the couch poring over the same pictures and hearing the same names and stories. I loved her accent and laugh… they brought the valley to life and colour to the pictures. She and Grampa also taught me Norwegian songs and rhymes that I still remember. I’ve always been proud of my Norwegian heritage.

That being said, my name is Larry because dad’s name is Hans.

Dad was born in Canada in 1932. His parents had arrived from Norway in 1929. They homesteaded in the Montney valley in 1931. When Dad was born, his home-sick young parents named him after his paternal grandfather. The next year, they had a second son. He was named Thor after (you guessed it) his maternal grandfather. My grandparents didn’t speak much English nor did most of their Norwegian neighbours in the valley. As a result, dad and my uncle Thor, arrived at school speaking only Norwegian.

I heard many stories about Dad’s childhood, both from him and my grandmother, Kari when I was young. It sounded idyllic. Riding horses to school, playing in the creek, wearing bib overalls… It sounded kind of “Huckleberry Finn”’ish to me. I was sure his childhood had been as flawless as mine.

It wasn’t until I was older that Dad shared some of the downsides of growing up in the 1930’s. Like most, they had little money… Dad said he remembers getting only a Mandarin orange in his Christmas stocking one year. But it wasn’t the “dirt poor” stories that bothered me. I had a hard time when he told me about the prejudice he’d experienced because he was an “immigrant”… especially because some of it had been at the hands of people I knew or had known. He told me the stories with a grin on his face and I sensed that he no longer felt malice toward anyone, but I also knew that he’d been bothered by the incidents of teasing, bullying and exclusion.

By the time I was born in 1958, Dad was a tall, blue-eyed, handsome 24-year-old man (I’m not sure what happened to me!). He was no longer being teased about his name or bullied because he was an immigrant’s kid. However, when it came to picking a name for me, Dad wanted me to have anything but a Norwegian name. In 1958, the name “Larry” ranked 22 on the Top 100 Boy’s names list (Apparently, in 1949 it climbed as high as #10!). It was exactly the kind of name Dad was looking for… an “American” sounding name. You know, like “Larry’s Pool Hall,” or “Larry’s Barber Shop”… Larry wasn’t an immigrant’s name.

In 1967, Dad and Mom took my sister, Carol and me to Norway. It was a first trip for all of us… including Dad. He was 35 when he met all of his aunts, uncles and cousins for the first time. He never did meet any of his grandparents (sadly, his maternal grandmother passed away just months before we arrived). It was an amazing and emotional six weeks. Dad came home wearing a Scandinavian sweater… he still looks good in one. Dad went on to became an active member of the Sons of Norway and at one point served as president. I think if he had it to do over again, my name would be Hans, or Olaf, or Lars. That would suit me just fine.

I can say that I never experienced prejudice of any kind growing up. I think having white skin and blue-green eyes may have helped. Looking back, I know that my First Nations and visible minority friends wouldn’t say the same thing.

I take my hat off to the people and programs in schools and communities who are doing all they can to make sure that immigrants to our country, and especially their children, are never made to feel ashamed of their own first names. “Settlement Workers in Schools” (SWIS) is one such program…

http://www.meetfortstjohn.com/life-in-fort-st-john/public-schools/swis-settlement-workers-in-schools