By IO

The Starbucks barista calls out a name, not mine, not originally but I’ll adopt it for future ordering encounters. She calls my new name over and over, adding the description of my beverage in case the person they’re calling knows the drink better than they know themselves. It’s true in this case. I knew my grande soy caramel macchiato, but I did not know until this moment that my name is Amy.

My father calls me by my name, the one he gave me against my mother’s wishes. He arrived at the side of her labor bed in time to plead for naming rights just as the contractions overwhelmed her with pain. So he got to name me something commonly Ibibio yet when he says my name, there’s always an extra syllable. This extra sound is not printed on my birth certificate. I’m grateful for that at least because there is enough confusion over my simple two syllables. No one else calls me this name and my father calls me nothing but. I don’t remember why. This was my difficult name, the only thing my father gave me that I cared about, even if I wasn’t sure I liked it.

I have not spoken to my father in nine years. I have not seen him in nearly ten. On my birthday he calls or texts, his annual try. I do not respond. To delete the voicemail, I first have to hit play. I hit ‘7’ to delete as fast as I can, only allowing the message enough time to speak my difficult name.

I am not expecting to find a series of lights on the ceiling when walking along the High Line, spelling out my reality. It is my first time to New York, on a trip with my best friend, another woman with a difficult name. At the time, I don’t know where the quote was from, just that it feels appropriate. Neither of us answer to the bastardized Anglican mispronunciations of our names in our personal lives. Yiwen is more steadfast than I, stating her given name when baristas ask for one. There is no uptalk present in her voice when she repeats her name after the expected utterance of “huh?” 

I do not have much from my father, from my Ibibio side. Just my name. My name that tells other Nigerians I am one of them. My name that weeds out those who will not bother to learn to pronounce two syllables common across most human languages. I write it in bold on my resume, knowing it is not helping me get an interview. My name is only difficult because white Americans think it so. 

In an interview, after a hiring manager has made it past the heavy vowels in my name, decided to take a chance on sounds they don’t know they can make, they ask me “how do you pronounce your name?” 

I say it the way I’ve always said it. The way my Ibibio Nigerian father said it. The way my white American mother says it. 

They say “what a pretty name” and I know they mean “I’ve never heard this name before. It is foreign to me but I am trying to convey acceptance.” 

I smile the polite half smile of someone used to these encounters. The smile of someone who sees her name as ordinary, knows that in another place, it is common. The smile of a Southerner who knows how to hear and speak around meaning and circumvent confrontation. I smile that shallow half smile, hold my pride close and hidden. I say, “thank you.”

The quote, it turns out, is from poet Warsan Shire: “Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.” 

Pronouncing my name is as American as baseball. Three strikes is all you get. I do not bother correcting strangers who appear and fade from my life after the length of a transaction. But if we are going to have some sort of relationship, even a shallow one, I give you the opportunity to learn how to say my name. After that, I let it go. Your voice’s mangling of my name becomes a vague sound that I do not respond to. I will let someone else correct your pronunciation and stare at your embarrassment. I will not blink.

Yiwen and I stand on the High Line and take a photo of the quote strung up in lights. Looking at it, I realize that, finally, I like my name. I like its versatility, having meaning in multiple languages, a globe-trotting chameleon the way I’ve always aspired to be. I like the way it sounds coming from the people I love, the people who always say those two syllables the way that feels right. I’ve grown into my name. Filled out the shape of it with my body. My name matches my face. 

It takes longer than this moment for the revelation to settle in. The lights on the ceiling are surprising, and I take a picture to reignite a feeling I will try to remember. Leaving the city gardenscape, two girls with difficult names continue exploring.