Maybe you’ve read the story of Mary, my Amah. If not, Mary was the housekeeper-babysitter who took care of my sister and me for years, excepting a brief stint as a Japanese internee at Manzanar. The entire time she lived with us I knew her only as Mary. The fact that my mother’s name was also Mary never became an issue because the only time I heard her given name spoken was when my father was yelling, “Mary! I can’t get the TV knob to work!” When he hollered for someone to come fix something, I knew he was speaking to my mother, whose real name was Ma, because he never, ever yelled at Mary who was my Amah. Sometime during elementary school, my parents decided my mother should stay home and raise me. This did not last long, but it did mean that Mary had to get a new job. She found a family in Illinois who needed someone to raise their three children. Illinois. I guess what with Manzanar and Echo Park, she’d had enough of California. By that time, I was old enough to print a letter, and I missed her, so Mary and I became pen pals. In order to address the envelope, I needed to know Mary’s last name. I asked my mother and her reply was Sakanaski, as in sack-an-ASS-key. Up to that time, everyone who was part of the family and had a last name was from Poland. Even though Mary was Japanese and from Gardena, I thought it was reasonable that she, too, would have a Polish last name. She was, after all, a member of the family. Mary and I corresponded for years. I learned cursive writing and was able to pen more than “I am six years old. How are You.” She would sweetly reply according to my ability to comprehend. Every single envelope I mailed was addressed to Mary Sakanaski. Somewhere around high school or later I began to have doubts. In all my reading and all my contact with new friends of Japanese heritage, I never came across another Sakanaski. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. What if her last name was the more likely Japanese surname Sakanashi, as in sah-ka-NAH-shee? What if I’d confused shi for ski all those years? To test my theory, I addressed the latest letter using the new spelling. I received a newsy reply, as if nothing had changed. From then on I addressed her as shi, not ski. That sweet woman continued to correspond with me until after she had finished raising her Illinois brood and returned to the Golden State to enjoy retirement living in Gardena. Not once in all that time and all those letters did she ever correct me or let on when I finally spelled her name correctly. Either she was too polite or I guess the years with us rubbed off and she didn’t mind being an honorary Polish Jew. Mary wasn’t the only member of the family with a pseudonym. My personal favorite was Aunt Rose, the one with all the pretty dance dresses. Aunt Rose loved to dance. She took ballet and ballroom dance classes but only during morning hours so she could be home in time to have dinner on the table for her hungry husband. She never went out at night without him or a family member. Her daytime activities were all very respectable, that is until she decided to develop an alter ego. On Thursdays I went to Aunt Rose’s after school. I was told this was because a cleaning lady at our house didn’t want me underfoot. Maybe Thursdays were my mother’s turn to have an alter ego. Either way, I was happy to go to Aunt Rose’s. Happy that is until the day I walked in and she was serving cocktails to and smoking cigarettes with a man who was not my uncle. I disliked him on sight and the feeling was mutual. He would much rather have had me stay at home with the cleaning lady. Ma explained to me that this was Aunt Rose’s dancing partner. “Uncle Jack knows all about it; don’t worry; just go in the bedroom and play with your toys.” That is what I did until the day I played with building blocks in the foyer. The dancing partner walked in, kicked over my castle, and walked on without giving me so much as a by-your-leave. Then I hated him forever. Apparently Uncle Jack agreed because I never saw the dance partner again. My, that was cathartic. Pay attention, people! Never knock over some child’s castle without saying sorry. You never know when karma is going to bite you in the butt. First Uncle Jack died. Aunt Rose honored his memory by keeping up with her afternoon dancing at the local Senior Center. Then my father died and Ma joined the party. In time, one of their nieces became a senior and showed up at the dance. She struck up a conversation with my mother and another lady and in the middle of their chatter, she remarked, “Oh, look! On the dance floor. There’s Aunt Rose!” The other lady looked and said, “That’s not Rose. That’s Betty.” From there the conversation spiraled downward. “Her name is Rose Bolstein.” “No, her name is Betty Brown.” “You’re mistaken; I ought to know who she is. She’s my Aunt and her name is Rose Bolstein.” “Well, I’ve been dancing with her for years and I happen to know her name is Betty Brown!” Both women turned on my mother for validation. She didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or head for the nearest exit. You see, my mother was in on Aunt Rose’s secret life. She knew that every afternoon, whether Rose was ushering at the Ambassador Auditorium or ballroom dancing, she did so under an alias. Betty Brown was a far more glamorous name than Rose Bolstein, and had been so every afternoon for the past thirty years. Not knowing what else to do, my mother came up with the best lie ever. She said, “Rose’s name is really Betty Rose, but in the family we just call her Rose. I named my daughter Bette after her.” This part of the lie was directed at my cousin, who believed Ma because she knew my sister. Ma lied some more. “Brown was her first husband’s name. Her full name is Betty Rose Brown Bolstein.” Both women smiled smugly, happy in the knowledge that they were right all along. A lifetime or two later, when I first started going to out dancing with my ballroom dance class buddies, we decided to form a dance association. Anyone was welcome to join as long as they followed one rule: be kind to your fellow dancers. We printed membership cards. I still have one. It’s titled “The Betty Rose Dance Society.” This is a true story. I’m telling you, you can’t make this stuff up.