You have been searching for a Ukrainian great-great-grandfather for years. You know roughly when he arrived, roughly where he settled, and roughly what his name was. But every search for Ukrainian records comes up empty. Then someone suggests you try Russian — and there he is

Three branches of the same family left County Mayo in the 1840s. One settled in Boston and became Sullivan. One went to New York and became O’Sullivan. One ended up in Philadelphia as Sullivane.

You are searching for your Hungarian great-grandmother. Her name, according to family stories, was Varga Erzsébet. You search every database you can find for Elizabeth Varga and find nothing. You try Erzsebet Varga and find nothing.

Moshe Goldschmidt stepped off a ship in 1903. Within six months he was Morris Goldman. His wife Rivka had become Rebecca. Their daughter Feige had become Fanny. The names they left behind in the shtetls of Eastern Europe were not just different names — they were a different world, a different language, a different identity.

Almost every American family with immigrant roots carries some version of this story. An ancestor arrived at Ellis Island. An immigration officer couldn’t pronounce the name, so he wrote down something simpler. The family has used that name ever since.

Somewhere in the Netherlands in 1811, a farmer stood in front of a government clerk, was asked for his family surname, and replied — with a perfectly straight face — “Naaktgeboren.” Born naked. The clerk wrote it down. The farmer went home satisfied that he had made his point.