Our names are caught up in our identity. Or maybe our identity is caught up in our names. My Hebrew name was not a very popular one when I was going to school. On the first day of school, when my teacher would ask me my Hebrew name, I would sheepishly and quietly answer, “Tziviya.” It’s one of those names that is pronounced differently in Israel so even when I went to seminary, I stuck with my English name. Tzviya, the Israeli pronunciation, just didn’t feel right. Many years later, I became involved in researching my family. With the treasure trove of family photos that I stumbled upon, I was able to piece together some sort of picture of my paternal great-grandmother, the very special woman for whom I was named. Tragically, she died in Auschwitz al kiddush Hashem. My grandmother was her only child who managed to leave Europe before the war and survive. Privy to this knowledge, I forged a connection to my great-grandmother, and as a consequence, to the name Tzivia. I still don’t use the name, but when I am asked what my Hebrew name is, I sit up straight and answer with pride.