I have spent the last week trapped in a sea of Juans and Marías. They are everywhere. I am drowning in them. My family tree no longer resembles a branching structure—it is just a dense, knotted mass of identical names and sheer historical spite.
Genealogy has many cruel jokes, but this one might be the worst. You think you’re making progress, you think you’re onto something, and then suddenly, you realize every single person in the family has the same name. Not just one branch. All of them. I have counted, and I am currently dealing with no fewer than eighteen different Juans across four generations. Eighteen.
And don’t even get me started on the Marías. Every single daughter? María. Every. Single. One. Sometimes they throw in a second name, but that doesn’t help because they all picked the same five: María Dolores, María Teresa, María de la Concepción, María Josefa, María del Carmen.
It is absolute madness.
Last night, I stared at a baptism record from 1754, and I swear I felt my brain short-circuit. The child’s name? Juan García. His father? Juan García. His godfather? Another Juan García. I had to step away from my desk before I started screaming into the void.
I get it. I understand the cultural and religious traditions. I know that naming your child after a saint or a close relative was a mark of respect. I know that in some cases, the “María” in front of a name was more of an honorary title than a name itself. But dear God, did they not realize what they were doing to me? Did nobody in 18th-century Spain ever think, Hey, maybe we should shake things up a little? Maybe name one of the kids Gregorio? Or Alfonso? Or, I don’t know, Anything other than Juan?
But no. They did not. And so here I am, trying to separate Juan García from Juan García, who lived at the same time as another Juan García, while desperately hoping that one of them at some point did something notable enough to distinguish themselves in the records.
At this rate, my only hope is that one of them was arrested for public drunkenness and his record includes an extra detail like, “Juan García, known as ‘El Cojo’ (The Limping One), fined two reales for disorderly conduct near Plaza Mayor.” That would be a blessing. That would be a gift. At least then, I’d have something to work with.
But instead, all I have is an endless, infuriating loop of the same names repeating through time. The Spanish archives? A house of mirrors. A cruel, never-ending trick played on poor souls like me who just want to make sense of their ancestry.
So if you’re ever in Madrid and you hear a distant, strangled yell coming from the direction of the Archivo Histórico Nacional, don’t be alarmed. It’s just me, losing yet another battle against the Juans and Marías.