No one else in the United States has my name, no one in the world in fact. I am the only Rhonda Suka on the planet. Unique, like all people, but with a name to match. I was born during the Vietnam War when parents were giving their children nature names like Summer, Rain and Star. These names conjured up through drug-enhanced visions or as peaceful statements to counter the atrocities of war or both. I was born into a new era. One where the name Rhonda sounded very sensible.
The Beach Boys recorded “Help me Rhonda” in 1965. It was number one on the billboard charts. When I was younger, adults would sing the chorus to me when I was introduced to them. They were usually surprised that I had heard of the song. I was secretly proud that I knew it all by heart. My Mother was a big music fan. She would play it while she cleaned the house or cooked and sing along. She was such a big Elvis fan I’m surprised I didn’t get named after one of his songs. But I don’t think she named me after the Beach Boys songs either, she just liked the sound of the name Rhonda.
My last name has changed five times. I was born with the name Rhonda French. When I found this out I laughed. I was 8. Sharing a name with things like French fries and French kiss was comical to me. I had never met my father or knew his name. I thought my name had always been Rhonda Russell. In fact, that was the name printed on my surreptitiously altered birth certificate. When I met my father that year, the name wasn’t so funny anymore, it was embarrassing.
In high school there was some confusion with my medical records. Had I been immunized for rubella? Did I need a tetanus booster? Rhonda French did, but Rhonda Russell did not. Which one was I? So, to make things clear, my name was changed to Rhonda French/Russell. Things became clear as milk. I had to explain to each of my friends and teachers why I now had two last names. I cringed during roll call as teachers stumbled over the awkward new name and students looked around to find out to whom it might belong. Mid-puberty is not a good time to mess with an already unstable identity. On graduation day I found the principle before the ceremony and pleaded with him to announce me as just Rhonda Russell. He asked me to hand him a little note as I walked on stage to remind him. I printed my name in big block letters on a scrap of notebook paper and folded it small enough so that no one could see it hidden in my palm. Approaching the stage, I handed it to the Principle with crossed fingers. As I walked to the middle of the stage to accept my diploma and pose for the photographer, my name rang out, Rhonda French…Russell. I glared, mortified at the principle as he realized his mistake mid-name, my urgent reminder still folded in his nervous hand.
I was anxious to change my name. When I got married I probably had the quickest name change recorded in history. I was now Rhonda Mall. Nice, simple and permanent. I lived in a new town so I didn’t have to explain anything about my name to anyone. I practiced writing it and enjoyed the ease with which it abruptly ended in two big loops. It amazed me that people would need clarification for such a simple name. “Mall, like shopping mall.” I would tell them. “Oh, Mall,” they would say as if I had mispronounced it the first time. I would see my name spelled different ways too, Mol, Mau, Maw, and once MAUL. How could four simple letters get so mutilated?
For twelve years I used that name, until I re-married and became Rhonda Suka. A simple 4 letter word that means “sugar” or “bitch” depending on the translation. It comes from the island of Tokelau. A speck of sinking coral in the South Pacific with a hundred or so lonely inhabitants. I’ve never been to Tokelau. Never even met anyone who has been there. My new husband’s father was born there and somehow made his way to Hawaii to marry a Samoan wife. Maybe he stole away on a copra trading ship or was hired as an engine maintenance man on a freighter. His name Suka was chosen, not handed down. Tokelauan men often chose a name for themselves, a fact which makes family trees nearly impossible to trace by anyone not from the island. He might have chosen his name while he worked on a sugar plantation run by French settlers liking the sound of the French word for sugar, sucre, adopting it as his own. Maybe it was a title from the docks he worked and the goods he could provide, “Suka, the sugar man.” Because of this, Suka is a very rare name, all the Suka’s are related, wherever they may be in the world.
Here in Hawaii, people think Suka is a Japanese name. That’s good for business. I ran a photography company for a while and many people were surprised when they saw me for the first time, expecting a Japanese girl. They would politely ask about my husband, convinced that he must be Japanese. They would try to hide their disappointment while I quickly explained the origins of Suka. Maybe it has a different meaning in Japanese of which I’m unaware. Maybe they just feel cheated or a little embarrassed by their inimitable ethnic favoritism. Their mistaken assumptions helped build my company and boosted its success. This same assumption works in my favor at the university as well. If people see my name before they meet me, I already posses an elevated intelligence.
According to the law, anyone can change their name to whatever they want. Not just the last name, but the whole thing. A respectable name like Lisa can be changed to the more farcical Ocean. An uncomfortable name like Gideon changed to George. My good friend changed her name from Paula to Lilly. Her new name befits her personality. She is a lovely Lilly. She knows all the words to “Help me Rhonda”.
