Sweet Caroline

Back when I was a child--even a teenager--I felt special. Not because I was from a rich family (I wasn't) --not because my parents told me I was the best thing in the world (like most parents, they kept their praise succinct and to the point). No, I felt special because my first name is "Caroline".

I was born in 1970, so I did get--and still receive--inquiries as to whether or not I was named after JFK's daughter Caroline. "No, sorry," I say, "I was named after my grandmother." And her mother, and her mother, and her mother before her. The only one without a Caroline (or, in German, Karoline) in her name is my mother Ruth, born during WWII. Turns out, being born during WWII doesn't improve your chances for carrying on the family German naming tradition. But come 1970, "Caroline" was an acceptable substitute for Karoline. I was "Caroline" in the family tradition.

My husband's name is David. In our suburb of Chicago, if you do not remember a man's name, the best bet is to mumble "David." You have a 90% chance of being right. Having grown up with an incredibly unique first name, I often tease my husband about what it must feel like when someone on the street yells out "David!" Strangely enough, our children know very few "Davids" while there are now several "Carolines" out there. Oddly, I wish the Carolines would change their names. I liked growing up with my unique moniker.

The main reason growing up a Caroline was a burden was that I decidedly hated Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline." Neil did a great job with the song. And now, I do indeed like, even love it. But in middle school, I had a 6th & 7th grade English teacher who spent most of the year trying to get my face to turn beet red (in which he succeeded). He targeted me and a girl named Barbara and played on an old 45 player the songs "Barbara Ann" and "Sweet Caroline" repeatedly. (A 45, for those born more recently, was a smaller diameter record that played at 45 rpms and almost always included only one song per side.) I don't know about how poor Barb felt. I couldn't look at her when she was being tortured. I could only thank the dear lord that it wasn't me. But then the music would start . . . and then the words.

Surely an adult--probably middle-aged at least--could understand the humiliation involved in the words to "Sweet Caroline" for a young adolescent:

"Hands, touching hands, reaching out
Touching me, touching you

Oh, sweet Caroline
Good times never seem so good
I've been inclined to believe it never would

And now I, I look at the night, whooo
And it don't seem so lonely
We fill it up with only two, oh"

Seriously? Back in those days, kids didn't tell their parents about things like this. But maybe I should have. I can still remember my face running blood red and hot . . . knowing all the other kids were staring at me and not quietly laughing. I'm sure they were thankful their names were Caroline or Barbara. Perhaps if we had had a Diane in our room, we would have heard plenty of "Jack & Diane" from John Cougar. Had I "told, " would my folks have been able to do anything?

Now, I'm more than two decades older. I have made piece with Neil Diamond, although I find it really weird that his inspiration was Caroline Kennedy. She was awfully young when he wrote that song. That's kind of creepy--unless he just created the idea that she was his muse. Or maybe his muse was someone else. Maybe a long-deceased woman whose great- or grand-daughter needed a lift. I finally found the sound appealing, positive and inspiring once I became an independent woman.

Now, I can't get enough.