The Name of a Canadian Immigrant: Stanka Mrakovic

Stanka is a curse: it’s my name

"Stan" means apartment, and the suffix "ka" was likely added to make it sound more like a traditional first name. My last name begins with "Mrak," which means darkness. The end of the last name is pronounced "Ovich," which is a common ending in many Serbian last names.

My parents had moved to Canada the summer before I started primary school.

In elementary school, I often got called names like Stinky Stanka, Stanka Stank, and Stanka-kaka. "Stanka" is a name commonly associated with a Serbian grandmother, or "baba." It also symbolizes missing out on monogrammed bracelets, lunch boxes, or pens. The kids named Karen and Michael were fortunate; they had flashy, disco-like stickers on their school notebooks

I avoided my classmates. I was a loner. I did not enjoy all the teasing. It drained my young spirit.

I had a Serbian neighbor in her 20s, Irina, and she was really my only friend. My father was the janitor of the 100-unit building. My mother spoke a bit of English and French, so she got a job as a cashier at a local Jean Coutu, which she called Johny Coutu.

At least our apartment was on the first floor, close to the door to the indoor swimming pool. After I did my homework as a child, I would go help my dad around the building. The property was too big for one man to clean.

And after supper, I would go swimming. Irina was the one who taught me how to swim. She loved it and turned me into a fish. Besides speaking Serbian with my parents, Irina taught me words I should not mention here.

Irina worked at the Serbian Orthodox church as their secretary and jack-of-all-trades.

Summers were lonely. The children of immigrants did not really get sent to camp. So, I spent them by the building’s outdoor pool and garden. The building consisted mostly of seniors and young professionals. I played with their grandchildren, who were mostly toddlers. I used to read to them while the senior sun-tanning club played bridge. To make matters worse, Irina found a boyfriend. I rarely saw her thereafter. Occasionally, she would come to our place on Friday nights with Jim, her Irish mate, for supper.

Stanka is an even less cool name to have when one starts high school.

In my first high school class, I automatically raised my hand upon hearing Stan-ka Mr. Ak. Oviz during roll call. A smart-aleck teen boy yelled out, "Stankistan." Some of my classmates laughed, while the rest remained silent. I appreciated their kindness or political correctness.

I joined the girls’ swim team. It was the crux of my social life. I can not say the other girls were my friends. They were more my acquaintances. I spent those adolescent years reading in the library or practicing my swimming.

Then one summer after grade nine, my mother’s brother came to stay with us, Stanislas. He was the one who gave me my first name. It was some nonsensical tradition on my mother’s side of the family. It could have been worse; he could have named me Vidosa.

He worked at the Hotel Moskva in Belgrade as a front desk clerk. He had started working overtime at the hotel so he could spend the summers with us. My mother was his only living relative left. My grandparents had died waiting for a train. An awning fell on them, including on a group of students.

Uncle Stan enjoyed backpacking and hitchhiking through Quebec. But when he did stay with us, it was usually on the weekends. At night, he would play cards with my father, and they would drink Rakija. Rakija is a fruit brandy with an extremely high alcohol content (at least 50%).

On those nights, my mother and I would go for long walks. One night, she was excited to tell me that she got a promotion. She would be the store manager. She had asked me if I wanted to go shopping, but I was used to thrifting. I told her to buy herself something special. She deserved it.

In grade 11, the last year of high school, something changed. I had French class as my homeroom.

Like usual, I sat in the back. Another girl walked in late, and the only seat left was next to mine.

“Hey, are you new to the school?” she whispered after sitting down.

“No, I’ve been attending school here since grade seven.”

“I’m Samantha. What’s your name?”

“I’m Stanka.”

“Hey, I’m going to call you Sta. I love giving people nicknames.”

“I don’t mind.”

The nickname stuck; everyone thereafter called me Sta, even the teachers.

I finally made a real friend in Canada. Sta introduced me to her circle of friends. They were all artsy, and they did not mind that I was a swimmer who liked to read. I shared some of the stories I read with them, and it inspired their paintings. We hung out a lot.

We all attended different CEGEPs, but we still gathered on the weekends. I chose to study English literature and eventually earned a Ph.D. in the field. My parents were proud of my achievements, but they didn't understand why I decided not to pursue a career in academia. Instead, I took a job as a copywriter at a niche advertising agency.

To get my first job, I listed "Sta Marks" as my pseudonym on my CV. That name helped me get my foot in the door, although my paychecks were issued under my real name. Believe it or not, names can be challenging for children of immigrants. I never felt fully Serbian or Canadian; it was as if I were a third entity, something entirely new. It’s not easy being caught between two cultures. Two very different worlds.

I must also admit that I never fully understood either of the cultures.

Then, at one of our weekly meetings at work, some freelancers joined us. They were helping us with a new client's campaign. Everyone went around the table, introducing themselves.

And for the first time in years, I blurted out, “I’m Stanka. I'm Stanka Marks.”

It was the first time I felt whole: part Serbian and part Canadian.

Our weekly meeting continued as usual. We were there to share the problems we encountered during the week on the campaigns we had been working on, and to solve them as a team.