The last name they read in their baby book the night before I was born.

I was going to be Evelyn. But extended family said no.

I was born 12 days late, so they kept looking.

They say I picked my name.

Alyssa.

Nobel. 

Kind. 

Beautiful flower. 

Joy. 

happiness. 

They say I picked my name.

But I can’t pick a nickname. 

Ali? No, that’s my grandma's name.

Lisa? No, that’s my aunt's name. 

They say I picked my name. 

My brother calls my Lyss.

My mom calls me Lyssa.

My dad calls me Pumpkin. 

They say I picked my name.

But I didn’t pick the spelling.

It’s Alyssa. A. L. Y. S. S. A.

Not

Alissa.

Alisa.

Alyyssa.

Alysa.

Allysa.

I’ve seen it all. 

They say I picked my name. 

But I didn’t pick the pronunciation. 

After years of being “uh-LIH-suh” I suddenly became “uh-LEE-suh”.

At my college graduation. 

I just rolled my eyes.

They say I picked my name. 

I love that I had that power and autonomy even before I was born. 

I picked my name. 

emphasis on beginning and end,

high, then low, then high,

a song in itself,

rolling off the tongue.

 

Close friends call me Val,

only a third of the effort,

more casual,

more fun,

but where’s the rhythm?

 

In school I was reminded often

of people’s favorite songs,

Valllllllllll-er-ie,

by the Monkees, 
by Amy Winehouse,

songs they play over and over again,

and tell me so.

I felt seen and heard.

 

My name is from my mother,

chosen with love:

Valerie means ‘strong,’

Suzanne means ‘beautiful,’

her unique vision,

how these descriptions apply,

becoming clearer as life moves forward.

 

When someone calls my name,

the song sounds like many others,

a familiar tune.

Whether it is mine or someone else’s,

I turn to the sound,

and cherish whoever is on the other side.

Not Holly, Malia, or Laurie. 

No, it’s not short for anything, and that’s great that you have a dog named Molly, but it’s really not necessary to tell me with such zeal. 

My last name is Walter. 

Not Walters, Water, Waters, or Walker. 

Such a simple last name so frequently botched.

My mom said you couldn’t say Molly without a smile when she chose it for me. 

There’s a certain truth to that statement, physiologically, as your mouth is literally forced to turn up at corners when you pronounce the sound “lee.” 

But she meant the smile that comes from a bright sunny day, sitting by the sea.

Walter is a German name I share with many people dear to me. 

I am happy to carry the last name of my grandfather.

The last name of my dad.

Dot-matrix printers, the scrouge of my childhood, which turned that M into an H. 

How I hated to correct teachers on that first day of class. 

Not a great way to start our relationship. 

As the year wore on, I would be bolstered by peers whenever we had a sub. 

“It’s Molly, not Holly,” they say, and I would melt into gratitude for their support.

When I was little the name Molly could feel isolating.

No monogrammed keychains or novelty license plates for me.

And then the dogs, the countless dogs.

It seemed that an animal name had been given to me; like my mom messed up and grabbed the wrong naming book.

Now I like my name.

It’s uniqueness in my generation.

I’m often the only Molly people know, the only human Molly anyway.

I like my nickname.

The sound Molls feels like a happy sound, a beloved embrace.

When we’ve reached the stage where you’re calling me Molls, you’ve come to know and like me.

My mom was right...in a way.

Many people do smile when they say my name...even if it’s only because they’re thinking of a cherished pet.

My uncle would tease me by calling me luchadora. Not sure how it was close to my name. I hated luchadores.

In school, I would often have to correct my teachers. I would get called Louise or Luis. I was never surprised of having to correct my name pronunciation every year after the 2^nd grade.

To top it off, my middle name was Fernanda. I felt like I was always called Luis Fernando. Umm, hello? Do you not see I’m a girl in a pink dress with a pink bow. 

I don’t have a nickname. My name is pretty short as it is, not sure how I can shorten more unless I opt to go by Lu.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to love my name. A visit to Italy, I found my name on chocolate bars. A visit to Nordstrom, I found Luisa Vannini handbags. Searching for a sweater for my daughter, the Roxy sweater I found was called Luisa. My name can be found everywhere. 

My name means “famous female warrior” and that is who Luisa’s are.

I love my name and the person I can become with it. 

My name has many spellings Kaitlyn, CateLynn, K8len
 Written on Starbucks cups and on 
 Birthday cards from family members who, after 30 years, still don’t know the spelling I use
 It took some time, but the “wrong” spellings do all feel like mine

Mom wanted a strong name

Strength as little sister to 3 older brothers

Strength for a harsh world

I used to hear:
”Oh! That was my great-grandmother’s/grandmother’s/great aunt’s name.”

“I haven't heard that name in years…”

“So old-fashioned...don’t hear that name anymore…”

“Are you from Wonderland?”

Ugh

I felt about my name
That I didn’t want it

I wanted to be Allison cause no one believed anyone would be Alice “in this age” 

(People often just called me Allison & I’d stop correcting them)

I was the only one with my name in school 

(although teachers always pronounced it correctly)

I'm grateful
Mom was stubborn & loud & strong

Her stubbornness

And loudness

And strength

Are in me

And we passed that to our daughter in naming her

Cause names matter

To privilege.

-th is not a combination in many tongues.

It is not easy to say Heather..

Heh-jour. Which I don’t mind. 

But I’ve also found when traveling 

In Guatemala and Spain

Or working on Sauvie Island

Nina works better. (and that’s a longer story for another poem)

The relief and joy on faces,

When they can call you a name 

They can remember

And say

And it feels good to me. 

I acknowledge this as sitting in a place of privilege

Of being in the dominate language

Of being seen in the world because I am white,

So adding a name as a gift to another is the least I can do.

I want to talk with you in my struggling Spanish,

So if a new name you can say

Bridges our gap

Let’s walk the bridge together

And I will work to pronounce your given name correctly

Knowing it may take many times.

I will keep at it.

But you can just call me Nina.

Iris like the flower

Iris como el arco

Iris like the Goddess of the Rainbow in Greek mythology; it’s origin

En Espanol, suena como crema en tu boca: Iris

In English, it sounds like a statement said with finality: Iris!

To monolingual English speakers, saying it in Spanish, it is like an insult

To others, they chew it up and spit it out in forms unrecognizable to me

At times, it causes confusion

At other times, the focus becomes adding “rr” where it doesn’t exist

Oftentimes, there is no ‘s’ at the end and it simply become “Edie”

Under better circumstances, it leads questions for understanding –

              “That is such a pretty name, where is it from?”

Under less than ideal circumstances, it lead to questions in an effort to “other” me –

              “You have an accent, where are you from?”

My name as Iris (ee-rees) and not Iris (eye-res) is a revolutionary act of resistance

I have been told:

              “You are in America now, where we speak English. Your name is not ee-rees, it is eye-res”

To which I responded:

              ‘I was born and raised in the United States of America and my name is and always will be IRIS (ee-rees)!’

To be Iris is to be me

It is to honor my Mexican and Spanish-speaking heritage

It is a reminder to myself and others that I am whole and not broken

That I know my history, my roots, my identity, my culture, my family and lineage

To call me otherwise it an attempt to erase who my ancestors fought to create