My Name: Silvana

Silvana Saccomani, April 2021

There is only one thing that we carry with us from birth to our death and beyond.

It’s our name.  And in my case, it’s always caused me piccoli problemi.

At the time of my birth, my Italian immigrant parents had just arrived in their newly adopted country of Canada, looking for a better life.  My dad, in fact, was not at my mom’s side when she was in labour. Instead, he was in a job line at the Crow’s Nest Coal company where he went every day: not once, or twice but three times a day, without pride.

Finding work and settling in was much more important than picking that perfect baby girl’s name. You know, the one that would secure her future as a strong, independent young lady in the new world.

I became “Silvana Saccomani,” moments after my first few breaths.

By Grade One, we had crossed the border into Alberta, settling in Lethbridge. It was the first-time people outside the family would see and have to say my name. It wasn’t pretty.

I cringed when substitute teachers took attendance. And I never understood why they didn’t break down my name, one syllable at a time, just the way they taught us how to read. But they didn’t. So what popped out—Silvia Sacomi— was painful to the ear.

My classmates were smarter. After the first day, they christened me”SIL.”  A monosyllabic utterance I never liked. They never asked.

With no explanation from my parents to its origins, I turned to the encyclopedia to see what I could find out and what it meant for my future.

Here’s what I found.

There was a famous Italian film star in the fifties named Silvana Mangano.

So, was I meant to be a movie star?

Silvana in Latin is divided in two: Silva meaning forest; Ana meaning Grace.

So, was I meant to be a princess living in an Italian villa in the forest?

Saccomani in Italian literally means: Hand Bag or purse.

So, were my ancestors leather artisans, making millions, that I would one day inherit?

It was obvious potential employers never did any research. When I had my first job interview at the age of 16, the city employee took one look at me and blurted: “But you’re not Japanese.”

Sure, there are the Japanese Gardens in the southern windy city, and lots of good hard working Japanese families, including the Sakamotos.  But I was not one of them.

Years later, now a married adult, my husband, Graham and I bought a second home in Italy.

The purchase thrilled me. Not for the romantic reason of going back to my family’s roots. 

Simply because I knew Italians would know how to say my name properly.

Turns out: They did. But I did not.

Whether it was making opening another bank account or applying for a parking permit, Italians were always willing to help correcting my small defects in pronunciation. Then there was the issue of the pause: apparently, I needed to pause for a second longer on the double letter ‘c’ in Saccomani and less on the ‘n.’

I grew up with a Brenda Mass. Now that’s a good name.

END