I was dozing off, sitting in a cold classroom with my chocolate-colored hair sprawled across my desk as my head held contact with the hard and unforgiving wood of the desk. I couldn’t bear to listen to my teacher go on and on about a topic in social studies and even then as an eight-year-old I hated social studies. I was almost fast asleep when I was jolted awake by the surprise mention of my name. “Blanca (Blanka), get up and pay attention!” my teacher shouted from across the room causing an onset of giggles from the other kids.
I winced at the way she had pronounced my name with sharp and jagged edges. My name was pronounced with a certain amount of softness and brilliance, but in that moment my name sounded alien and strange. It didn’t slip past me that the way the other kids my age also pronounced my name as if it left a foreign taste on their tongues that they did not like. On the other hand, At home, my name was smooth but lively. It flowed beautifully out of everyone’s mouths and I loved it. My name meant white in Spanish but it was much more than that for me. It was the clouds, the snow, and the silk. but now it sounded out of place, awkward, and forced. I decided I didn’t want it. I was tired of having to hear people stumble over my name and act as if it cut them in the process.
At eight years old, I was well aware I was different. My name was a testament. Blanca (blah-nkah) was a Spanish name and everyone could tell. My name had been my first impression. It showed that I wasn’t just an eight-year-old child but an immigrant and all the stereotypes placed on it. I didn’t want to be a treated like a foreigner in my own country, so I molded myself into what an American was as if there was only one category. My first step to assimilating myself was to get rid of my name. I changed it from Blanca to a flat American name absent of anything reminding me of home. It no longer left foreign tastes in people’s mouths,
now it was just a common name I shared with millions of other people. I had barely lived but I was already trying to erase my identity and culture because although, America is a wonderful place it does nothing to comfort you if you are different and even at eight years old I was aware of that.
So to all the other people with names that people stumble over and spit out uncomfortably. Don’t let them. Make them remember your name wholeheartedly for all its meanings, whatever they are.
