I find myself correcting my mother’s english

Trying to iron “mami” out of  my tongue and hair

Wishing Lorelai Gilmore was my mother

 

I make a speech on how to properly pronounce my name to my  class

Afterwards, a boy comes up and tells me, “I’m just going to call  you what I can”

I say sorry

My name is now a full blown apology

The loathing wraps around my neck

like a thick scarf in a hot room

I learn to associate being brown with suffocation

Whiteness with desire

An American brown girl with two languages growing inside her

How does  your name fit into a world  that doesn’t call you

what your father use to call you

Mi corazon

Mi Amor

Mi Vida

You wonder

What is a name if it isn’t a dull knife carving your home into you

Most days, I don’t even correct people when they mispronounce my name

I always think that their tongues are in the same place as their heart

I get accused of being too complicated when I ask for someone to say my whole name

Every syllable of it

As if I should apologize for the work that it takes

But why?

When my name was the only thing that was given to me

Without the expectation of something in return

If We can’t go into every conversation demanding to speak Spanish

Then we can go in demanding that our names sound like the language we first learned to love