Introduction

This Introduction appears in its entirety, other chapters are excerpts only.

As recently as February 2020, I was asked for my maiden name on a form. I hate that. I want to leave my maiden name behind, but it follows me everywhere. I can’t get rid of it. This time it was on a form we had to fill out on arrival at the airport in Curaçao in the Caribbean. Why do they need to know my maiden name?

It reminds me of Lady Macbeth’s line from Shakespeare: “Out damned spot; out, I say.” I feel her anxiety. I can’t get the damned spot out!

Our Freak name came to be at Ellis Island in New York City. We believe my grandfather had a Polish name that was difficult to pronounce and even more difficult to spell. I have tried to picture my poor, desperate, illiterate grandfather being asked to state his name to the immigration officials who must have had a very sadistic and cruel sense of humour. I have read that it was common for them to translate, or randomly convert, foreign names into ones that were easier to write and say in English. They might have looked at my grandfather’s documents or heard him say his name, laughed, and said, “What a freak name that is!” And then they recorded his name, John Freak. He would not have had any idea what it meant and how it might affect his family for three generations.

A Freak was born.

My grandfather was born in 1864 and my grandmother, Anastasia, in 1872, both in Poland somewhere. But their marriage took place after immigrating to the United States, we believe in a church in St. Paul, Minnesota in 1893.

In 2011, I made my first and only visit to the museum on Ellis Island. I was mesmerized by one particular photograph from the late 19th century. I stared at it for a long time. It showed perhaps a hundred men or so, clad in overalls, working on the railroad in Minnesota. I scanned every face looking for some resemblance, but the picture was very grainy and indistinct.

From what I learned from the museum exhibits, new immigrants were sent to different cities, towns or rural areas, for specific jobs based on their origin and nationality. The majority of immigrants from Poland were sent to Minnesota to work on the railroad. My grandfather could have been any one of these men in that picture.

They lived in the bustling state capital of St. Paul before moving north to Canada, to a small rural community called Eagle River. Some of their relatives still live in St. Paul today, but my grandfather was the only one given the unfortunate name of Freak.

One summer while visiting northwestern Ontario, I decided to take my children to see their ancestors’ final resting place in the Eagle River cemetery. Even in its heyday, this tiny village was just a scattering of small homes that you could count on both hands, surrounded by mature forest. It existed as a coal and water stop for the locomotives on the railroad. The cemetery is a small field dotted by gravestones and markers that are mostly unorganized.

I hadn’t returned in quite a long time, but I felt compelled that I should visit my father’s grave at least one more time. My father was buried in the winter with more than a foot of snow on the ground, in an unmarked grave. His marker was set in place several months later. By then, my mother was not sure which of three graves were his, so she placed the marker on the middle one.

The marker read: In Loving Memory of Peter Freak 1906–1961.

I stared at the marker, trying to feel a connection with my father and the past, but I could not. He died too early in my life, before I got to know him well. My memories of him are of a kind and gentle man who loved me dearly, but he was also austere and distant. He left my life before I was able to form a strong bond with him.

My father and I rarely spoke to each other, not because we did not like each other, it’s just that neither one of us was a good communicator. Any conversation with my dad was short, perhaps one or two sentences at most.

While standing in this graveyard, I tried to imagine what my ancestors’ lives were like.

Seeing the Freak name etched solidly in concrete startled me. There it was. A fact of life, a permanent, indelible and undeniable record of the Freak history, in a public place for all to see. Not that many people visit the Eagle River cemetery. The name was prominent and not hidden. It seemed strange to me to see it on a gravestone, identifying a particular person who once was known by that name, and unashamedly so.

I wandered around and stopped in front of three other Freak gravestones that were grouped together in one area. My grandparents had seven children, these were my father’s younger siblings. Sadly they didn’t live long, which was not too uncommon for the time.

The stones read:

Alexander Freak

Born 1899

Died 1917

Mary Freak

Born 1901

Died 1923

Vera Freak

Born 1904

Died 1918

Alexander was just 18 years old, Mary 22 years old, and Vera 14 years old.

I tried to take in the enormity of that tragic history, how those deaths might have affected the family. I tried to put myself in the place of Mary, the middle child of the three siblings. When Mary was 16 years old, she lost her 18-year-old brother from drowning. When she was 17, she lost her younger sister, probably from the Spanish flu. And five years later, Mary herself died of pernicious anemia.

I also tried to imagine how grandma and grandpa Freak would have felt, having to cope with this horrible reality. They lost their first three children within a space of seven years. This must have been devastating for them.

They also lost another daughter, Elizabeth, but I did not see a gravestone for her. Perhaps she died at childbirth.

The last Freak children to be born survived much longer, they were three boys: my father Peter, Bernard and Felix.

After Alexander, Vera and Mary died, my father would have been the oldest of the remaining children. My uncle Barney did not marry and remained at the family’s old homestead until he died. My uncle Felix married Emily and they stayed close, living next door in Eagle River.

I find it remarkable that, out of seven children, it was only my father who had any children. And he had four of them to proudly carry on the Freak name. Or to be haplessly burdened.

The Freaks live on.

The first, Douglas, was born in 1941. Two other brothers followed, Bruce and Raymond. I was born in 1950 on Doug’s ninth birthday. I was the youngest Freak and the only girl.

The Freak name has affected my life in so many ways. There is no doubt that having this surname has caused our family to feel embarrassment and stress.

It is human nature to prejudge and stereotype. A first impression of someone is formed not only by their outward appearance, but also by that person’s name, particularly one that is out of the ordinary. Oftentimes, especially before the Internet and social media, you first learned of someone by reading their name somewhere, perhaps on a class attendance list, on a label or in a mailed letter, or in the newspaper. You may not form an opinion for someone named John Smith, but you certainly may for Marlene Freak.

And so we were given a label at birth. Whether or not society always passed judgement on us for this, I do not know. And I cannot speak for the other Freaks in my family, but our surname significantly affected me and my ability to stay positive and hopeful, grow as a person, and achieve successes, however big or small. It was an additional hurdle in this game of life, an additional hurdle that I could have done without. I had enough difficulties to overcome.

As a young child, I could be indifferent. I could forget what my last name was. I could run around the playground with other kids and get lost in the fun and frolic. Only first names matter when we are so very young. Sometimes I could even pretend that the name didn’t actually exist. But as I got older, the weight and the burden sometimes became unbearable and caused much distress, as you will read in these pages.

What’s in a name?

It can be difficult to shake a label, especially if it’s your legal name.

As one can imagine, being a Freak has affected my level of confidence and it has been used to bully me. I also believe, beyond that, it has had many negative, profound and systemic effects that would be difficult, if not impossible, to identify or quantify. I have been the recipient of unjustified and undeserved cruelty and ridicule by people, sometimes as a direct result of my name, but not always for that reason alone.

Having the last name of Freak compounded the challenges in my life, some relatively simple challenges, common challenges that most of us face and must overcome to grow in society, and hopefully thrive. It contributed to my shyness, my temperament, and my ability to deal with many social situations. These traits can be tremendous impediments to one’s success in their personal life and in their career, and their overall acceptance by peers and in society.

I have tried to overcome my feelings and to improve myself, but I know I have not been totally successful. I have been blessed to meet many people who are, by their nature, generous and kind, but also disappointed that others can be so mean and spiteful.

I have come upon more than my share of bullies in my life, being the recipient of harsh words and actions without a valid reason. In my childhood, my unlucky last name did nothing to help.

Bullies get pleasure out of demeaning other people because it makes them feel powerful by making others feel weak.

Living in the small rural community of Eagle River, sheltered from the outside world, my grandparents probably did not face much discrimination because of their name. But unlike theirs, my life has spanned the world and Freak has come along for the ride, like unwanted baggage, everywhere I went. I have had to reveal it for foreign visa applications, background checks, and for attaining many other official documents.

Freak in more than just a name.

When I grew up, I often felt like I was a freak but it wasn’t just as a result of my last name. I led a very different life that most people could not even imagine. My childhood was anything but normal, it took some dramatic turns, and this memoir reveals all.

Looking back, the first 10 years of my life seemed fine, even normal, the opposite of what would be considered freak. But then they would to any child who did not know anything different.

After age 10, my life changed drastically. Sometimes I wonder how I ever made it through my adolescence without succumbing to total depression and despair.

My hope is my memoir helps to give others the opportunity to gain a new perspective, understanding, and empathy for parts of the human experience that are very different from their own. Perhaps it might change some people’s attitudes towards those who are less fortunate than themselves.

All the events described in this book are real and truthful, as they happened. This memoir has been written over time, when the experiences were fresh and raw. All the characters in this book are, or were, real people. Some of the names have been changed, as I would not want to harm or embarrass anyone needlessly. In many cases, it was necessary to use a real name, but I often omitted the last name.

My hope would be to change the future for the better by relating some of the stories.

We cannot change the past.