Memoir

My Secret Life of Shame With the Last Name ‘Fuks’

Going through my childhood with a last name nearly identical to the mother of all curse words was utter torture. But only after my family changed it did the regrets really begin.

My Secret Life of Shame With the Last Name ‘Fuks’

I was a serious child born to serious people.

In gym class at P.S. 100 – a school situated in one of the roughest areas of the South Bronx in New York City – two fellow fourth graders are taking turns smacking the back of my head while I attempt to complete our required 60 sit-ups.

This is far from the first time something like this has happened to me. By then I’d been physically abused on two coasts. I complain to the gym teacher.

Instead of punishing the delinquents, he imparts an aphorism: “Saddle a kid with a name like Fuks, in this neighborhood, and you’ll either break him or force him to develop one hell of a sense of humor.”

“What’s a sense of humor?” I ask.

He shakes his head in pity and walks away.

“Papa, the kids are bullying me because of our last name,” I tell my father, who’s of Russian descent, and Jewish, at home later that day.

“Why? Fuks is a good name. You should be proud!”

“Yeah, but everybody calls me ‘Fucks.’”

“Correct them. Tell them it’s pronounced Fooks, or Fyooks.”

“Do you even know how to pronounce our last name?” I ask.

“Yes. I know it’s not ‘Fucks’ and you should never let someone call you that.”

Naively, I heed his advice. The next day I make the mistake of correcting a student, who looks 35 and stands nearly six feet tall, on the pronunciation.

“It’s technically pronounced ‘Fooks.’”

“Well, it’s ‘Fucks’ now, muthafucka,” he replies. “You got a problem with that?”

“No problem at all. I agree, ‘Fucks’ sounds so much better. Let’s stick with that. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

As a kid, the challenging last name compounded my many other issues. My pencil-neck – working against the laws of physics – propped up a disproportionately massive head, which was capped with a 1980s anchorman haircut. (Imagine the plastic helmet hair on a Lego action figure.) My ears possessed a wingspan so wide they practically flapped on windy days. Of course, none of these characteristics escaped the notice of my classmates, who reveled in torturing me over anything that made me stand out. I’m fairly certain I’m the only man in history to have had the honor of being branded with the sobriquet “Dumbo Fucks.”

My family lived in housing projects. Our apartment was on the 13th floor, which developers are known to avoid numbering as such for fear of bad luck. They must have figured: “These people will be living in the South Bronx. If they had any fear left in them, they wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Mama still reminisces about how this was her favorite apartment – mostly because the rent was cheap. But she didn’t have to attend P.S.100 and, later, middle school at I.S. 131. She didn’t have to dodge rocks thrown at her head while walking home as kids yelled, “Fuck you, Fucks! You corny-ass muthafucka! Look at them kicks! You wearing old-man shoes, you dumb commie fuck!”

After witnessing the high value my peers placed on kicks, I experienced an epiphany: “Perhaps it’s not my last name, it’s the insufficient coolness of my footwear that’s at the root of my problems!”

Much to my surprise, I manage to convince my parents to buy me a pair of top-of-the-line, rich cobalt, high-top Filas – sneakers that carried a bit of cache in the ’80s.

The school is abuzz as I debut the Filas. Kids gather around me in admiration. In fact, three students are so smitten with the sneakers, they hold me down and snatch them right off my feet, leaving me to finish out the rest of the school day in socks.

“You’re fucked now, Fucks! You dumb commie bastard!”

Turns out it wasn’t the sneakers.

I wasn’t the only one being tortured for my moniker. My grandfather, whose first name happened to be Motel, made the unfortunate decision to start a limo business and name it “Motel Fuks Limo Corporation.”

“Say I just want the fucking without the motel or the limo?” some of the many prank callers would say to my befuddled grandparents. “Do I have to buy the bundle or is it à la carte?”

Why did my parents cling to Fuks for so long? Their hypothesis seemed to be: “Children who ridicule our son for our last name may be unique to the South Bronx.” Discussions of changing it were tabled until we carried out a proper field test with a move out of the neighborhood for a brief spell among the beach denizens of the Bay-Area city of Concord, California. There, as an eight-year-old, I experience what it’s like to be attacked by a mob of about a dozen third graders.

The group beating is incited by an innocent remark I make when a classmate snipes, “How come you’re Jewish? My momma says Jews killed Jesus and everybody should be Christian if they want to be good people.” I respond, “Screw you and screw your Jesus. What did Jesus ever do that was so great?”

Suddenly, a fist grazes my right temple, and I’m surrounded by a chorus line of pre-pubescent goons playing “Kick The Jew,” while a few others take turns pushing me around, tearing at my clothes. Eventually, I fall to the concrete floor, pick myself up, and launch into a race for safety behind our playground monitor.

Californians aren’t nearly as laid back as you’d imagine.

The move to Concord was a bust. Failing to gain a foothold due to the unemployment crisis, my parents resettled in the Bronx within a year, and we stayed put until I turned 13, when they were able to scrounge up enough money for a down payment on a modest cape, landing us in the predominantly white, status-chasing, middle-to-upper-middle-class Northern New Jersey suburb of Fair Lawn.

“We’re in a new town again,” my father says to me before he drops me off on my first day of school there. “You have a chance at a fresh start. Now, don’t fuck this up.”

Adjusting to Fair Lawn was its own special nightmare. By that point, I had marinated for such a long time in the Bronx, I became convinced I was black – and no one could tell me different.

The incongruity with my appearance is startling. Opening the door to homeroom class, I make my quasi-grand entrance sporting a mauve nightclub shirt adorned with shimmering streaks of silver sparkles, gray-colored dress slacks speckled with black dots – bearing more than a passing resemblance to a Dust Bowl tornado – and a brand new pair of Air Jordans, still holding out hope it was the sneakers that were the problem.

In what proves to be a futile effort to rebrand myself, I take to wearing a necklace touting my name in cursive gold letters: “Allan.” But as word spreads of my appearance, I once again gain infamy as “Fucks,” the biggest dork anyone has ever seen.

“The kids in Fair Lawn are worse than the ones in the South Bronx,” I say to my father a few weeks into living there.

The next morning, he slaps a pair of boxing gloves in my hands and brings me to the garage where he’s just hung a punching bag.

“Punch hard” are his only words to me.

Papa wasn’t exactly an avid reader of Dr. Spock.

By the time I was 16 my parents had been able to thoroughly test their hypothesis and reach the conclusion that kids all across the country, hailing from every income level, race, and religion, will verbally abuse you if your last name is Fuks.

Finally, Papa caves. A family meeting is called to make the big change. The only stipulation is that the new name must begin with the letter “F.”

“I bought a gold chain with an ‘F’ and I’m not returning it!” my father proclaims at the meeting. (You weren’t a real man in our family unless you wore an identifying chain.)

We throw a bunch of Irish “F” names in a hat because, as my mother says, the Irish are, for the most part, better liked than the Jews. She also felt that with our pale skin, most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

One by one, we take turns picking them out.

“I got Flanagan!” says my younger sister.

“Mine says Flaggherty! Ooh, I love the sound of Flaggherty!” I exclaim.

“Tough shit,” my father says suddenly. “We go by majority – your grandmother, mother, and I picked out Finn, so from now on your name will be Allan Finn!”

To this day, I have no idea why we went through that barnyard raffle contest method of deciding our fates if the adult unit in the room had already chosen a name.

“Now don’t fuck this up!”

The most dramatic effect of the Finn outcome was on my grandfather, who also changed his first name to Michael, though he passed away shortly thereafter. Michael Finn was born a Jew and died an Irishman.

In my case, college becomes my tabula rasa: anonymity, a foreign experience. No one knows of my former last name outside of a few Fair Lawners, and no one cares. The trauma cuts so deep that I’m on the verge of tears when I’ve gone my entire first day on campus without hearing a single derisive comment. For the first time, I am invisible, which is what I thought I had wanted.

In actuality, it wasn’t invisibility I was seeking, but rather, notoriety on my own terms. Between my unchecked body dysmorphia, low self-esteem, and a paralyzing depression that had taken root in my college years, unbinding myself would prove a lifelong challenge. Maybe that’s why I gravitated to stand-up comedy. Getting onstage and exposing my demons granted me the opportunity to take this challenge head on, and enabled me to finally discuss the more painful aspects of my life, including my divorce, the death of a beloved friend, and the mistakes I’ve made that have cost me some of my most treasured relationships – none of which were at all based on my last name.

“Finn” was pulled out of a hat, and the absurdity of that was never lost on me. The more I ruminated on my original last name, and the reasons we changed it, the louder this strident voice grew within that said: “You’re whitewashing your past, your family name, and your true identity. When will you stop pretending to be someone you’re not?”

The first name change was a capitulation to bullies, xenophobes, and conformists. I rather like the idea of reclaiming it. So I did.

Reverting back to it has been strange and surreal – the memories the name summons are far from pleasant. Yet, there’s a certain gratification to seeing my real name on a comedy lineup. I’m no longer hiding from others or myself.

Fuks is the name that was handed down to me from a long line of tough, proud people who survived discrimination, pogroms, and the Holocaust. If someone doesn’t like it, tough shit. I don’t give any Fuks.