What's in a Name?

It is the sound of our identity
The auditory virtual self
That is spoken into the universe
And when written on the page
It means “ME”

And I was given
Iraida -mi Papi me llamo, with tears in his eyes and love blooming in his heart
Playa playa though he was, I was the sparkle in his winking eye.
And like many ghetto youngins,
He created my name from the name of his wife
Aida and Iris
Iraida - mami me llamo, longing and aching for a little girl who would receive all the pure and she thought,
untainted love that she had to give
Off to school I went into a world with English speaking teachers,
With little or no patience for ethnicity
It was enough that they had to learn all our names, but to say them correctly?
File under: not important
And so the name that Papi proudly crowned me with became
Eye-ray-duh
I raid her
I ate her
I hate her
Uh-rye-duh
I ride her
It sounded like paper tearing
It was ugly, it was ordinary
And...it …was… me

As I grew
Iraida curled up into a ball and sat in my chest happily raising her head when she was called
But otherwise, Jani answered all the questions
Can you say that right?
“Jani?”, they’d ask
“Yeah, like Johnny be good?”equals
“Since I have to remind myself, please don't mess with me”
That’s not your real name though, your real name is…
“Iraida”
“Well, how do you say that in English?”
“You don’t"

How do I explain?
My name, filled with joyful rainbows and 85 degree sun showers, became a mis-shapen abstract loop of auditory nonsense
Frustration bubbles up as I ask you not to call me Eye-ray-duh and you insist that it’s my proper name and that you will refer to me as such.
That is not my name!
You will not rename me!
I will not shout Toby!
It is MY name

Historically it meant our pride, it meant our family, it meant our culture
By the time I was 9 I wanted a new identity… I wanted to be Melinda or Linda. Or Barbie.
There were no toothbrushes, key chains, bicycle plates, or t-shirts with my name
That Lady on Romper Room never ever ever EVER said Happy Birthday to me.
Determined to change it at 18 legally,
But needing a quick fix Nina and then Jani became my alter-egos
There’s even a girl in Puerto Rico who wrote pen-pal letters to a Brenda.
At 18, I would be reborn… the possibilities were endless
And then Papi died, at 40 years old he died… succumbing to poison from another time another place
(There’s an entirely different poem about militaries and agent orange right here)
Crept up on me just when I thought I would get to know him and by the time it was time
To change my name, I couldn’t because it was all he had ever given me

And one day, someone said it right…
in my mind
in my heart
someone said right
And I fell in love
In my name the coqui chants
And the flamboyan leans
Depositing flowers onto the veranda
Sprinkling the ground around tia’s rocking chair
Where it smells of flowers and a cafesito.
If you say it right
Turquoise oceans, sparkling in the sun like liquid antique glass bathe your tongue
It is mine… very few have it… it’s special
When people see my fair skin and eyes
There is no doubt… that Iraida Janina Perez de Rosado es Boricua
And if you say it right
if you say it all
It’s a balm to my spirit.
A gift to my soul.
Iraidita – Papi me llamo y Mami me canto
Y es mi nombre

~jani rosado

art by santiago