My name has an uncommon spelling, one first-generation Mexicanos would never pick: V-i-c-k-i-e. Ie. “ie?” people say, how odd. “Is it short for Virginia?” My parents did not pick the last consonant. They only had the concept: baby girl, alive, unimpaired mover and dancer. Mom says the black nurse who provided the spelling had big white teeth and smelled like peppermint gum.

Above all, my name is a reference- to Victoria, my other half who left LA much before I did.

Victoria my oldest sister who never got to beat me up with her left hand while she curled her hair with her right. I never tagged along anywhere with her and her hoochie friends to “Purple Rain” or to the Glendale Galleria. She dreamt her way to heaven so I could be the big sister to our two younger brothers. So I could beat them with one hand and drink my morning milkshake with the other.

She left so I could take my younger brother Jesse to watch, “Batman Begins,” and to pimple-skinned parties on Jaboneria Street. I’m named after a ghost for whom my mother makes birthday cakes out of Styrofoam discs, lovingly covered with real icing and ballerinas every one of her 36 birthdays.

Victoria took a look at south east LA and said, “Chale, I’ll catch you on the rebound.” Neither she nor I got to be a chola, or a cha-cha, or a new waver. She left me here with thick glasses in fourth grade, these stories and a name to live up to, everyday. Don’t. Fuck. It. Up. Girl.

I was born in Inglewood (“always up to no good”), near LAX, where I would make a maiden voyage to visit colleges 17 years later. How it makes sense - that every night or so, I dream of fly-away places, a deluged mélange of everywhere I’ve lived or seen: an Italian mansion in a Chiapas jungle, with a view to the Caribbean from my sleep.

Victoria- I don’t blame you for not staying. It was all mean-ugly girls through high school, then silent throbbing lack in college. Grad school was warm and got me ready for all work in life. There I learned how to dance cumbia ballenato, or is it “vallenato”? You tell me, girl.

I scribbled across your photo face as a toddler- you in the kitchen on top of our marigold painted table. That’s all I’ve ever had for your likeness. How lovely you might look today, all flirty thirties with our wavy hair and long Mendoza eyelashes, living your life somewhere near silver planes.

And my last name? Vértiz. An accent on the “e” thanks to a Spanish from Spain college professor. I’ve also spotted a certain street named, “Doctor Vértiz” in Mexico City with the accent on the ‘e’ too, melting my guilt over the initial gachupin influence over my young college mind. “But Chata,” says dad wearing cop Ray-Bans with a paper bag in his right hand, “Our last name comes from the name ‘Veretti.’ No sabes que somos Italianos?” Of course we’re Italian. That’s why mom speaks Nahuatl like a sailor. I love how Mexicans always find a blue-eyed granny somewhere in our lineage, but never an Indio or Moor or Moreno. This ass is not Indian, I’ll tell you that much.

All I can tell you is that I was very at home when I arrived in Morocco in 2001. All black arching eyebrows and olive pink skin like mine. They were impressed with my gnawan music dancing abilities. I didn’t have it in me to tell them all their songs sounded just like cumbias.

* tocaya: a girl with the same name as me

by Vickie Vertiz
San Francisco, CA

“Why did you call me Helen?” It is a question I have asked my parents probably thousands of times and they have a deliciously pretentious explanation for my name, and as I’ve grown I have proudly started to perpetuate it. Helen, a Greek name meaning light, (as well as being the face that launched a thousand ships), was chosen for the fact that I was born two months prematurely weighing two pounds two ounces, light by anyone’s definition. It suits me, as one of those no-nonsense, pragmatic names that can carry you through any stage of your life. My mother tells me of their determination to find a name that wouldn’t go out of fashion by the time I was eighty three. Having grown up amongst a generation of Kylies, Staceys and Billy-Jos, I understand the logic behind it. I like having a name that instantly belies my gender, but not my age.

I will be honest and admit, with no offense to my parents, that when I was younger I wanted to be a Becky or a Holly or a Vicky, anything with a y really. There was a girliness to those names, a softness that as an eight year old drowning in my own precociousness, I wished I had. There were no shortened forms of my name, no jolly nicknames. I was a constant, and, at the time, it was maybe too mature a name for my nature. It needed nurturing.

As for my middle name, never has it seemed more fitting. Louise means warrior, and from the second I was born it feels as if I have had to fight. As a child, I was a regular at accident and emergency, riddled with severe asthma attacks and often arriving on the verge of turning blue. A year and a half ago, I shattered a disc in my lower spine, and currently, spending a day out of the house has turned into a battle. There was no small amount of prophecy on my parents’ part.

The adult me loves my name, and revels in its practicality. I may never win any prizes for glamour but, like my real life self, my name offers a steeliness and a strength of character that I have worked hard to develop. There is tough love in the name Helen.

The real beauty of my name, as with the scientific beauty of faces, lies in its symmetry. Helen Dring lies on the page beautifully, a perfect ten letters.

by Helen Dring
Liverpool, United Kingdom

Have you ever been in the cereal aisle at your local grocery story debating between the bunches and the clusters or the pops and the puffs, only to hear your name called by a face of which you have no remembrance? Yes, it has happened to us all–except me of course. You see I have this name filter that allows me to know the nature of my relationship with anyone: ever-present or forgotten, dead or alive.

In the beginning, there was Justin. Though not my first name, family and loved ones have called me Justin since birth. Why this occurred yet remains a mystery. Coincidence or not, my mother and father also go by their middle names. For quite some time, this name served as my only identity, that was until Pre-Kindergarten.

Until the age of five I knew my name, but had never been called Joseph. When it happened, I did not quite know how to react. The only thing I did know was that I hated the epithet Joe. It was shortly after this point I realized my two names had separate meanings, separate responsibilities. Justin is well-known, well-loved: the first of a new generation. Joseph is well-learned, well-liked: one of twenty-something faces in a classroom. Despite my vehement distaste for Joe, by junior high Jo grew on me. The split began.

While Justin was the funnest cousin, the sweetest grandchild, and the most well-mannered church member. Jo was rambunctious, smart-lipped and, by high school, liable to be under the influence of drugs and alcohol. These characteristics, however, could never cross paths. If they did, my illusions would fail and I would have to find a way to amalgamate all that was Justin Joseph Jo into one person. This of course didn’t happen, for there was at least one more alias to add.

College years brought about the need for a personal renaissance. I had grown weary of Jo and his antics, Justin was too sheltered, and Joseph was still a child. Fret not, for Jodi was the answer to them all. It was he who spoke with power and conviction, he who dressed with the utmost sartorial excellence, he who fearlessly trotted the globe, he whose scholastic endeavors were met with honors, he who has fallen in love more than most, he whose spirit was far beyond his years–the one with the bulletproof smile.

As I have matured, it has been my challenge to make loveable Justin join badass Jo join baby Joseph join everyman Jodi. I have not arrived yet, but one thing is sure. Whenever I am approached by an unfamiliar face, I will always know how we are connected by what they call me.

by Joseph Justin Pye
Atlanta, GA

We were having coffee with Jane at the Chocolate Fish cafe, sitting at the outside tables by the beach and over the road from the cafe itself.  Hitomi was about to burst, so it must have been late August. A wonderful late winter’s day in Wellington, with beautiful sunlight and a nasty wind-chill factor.

We got on to the topic of whether ‘it’ was a boy or a girl. For most of the pregnancy both of us had been, in traditional fashion, very coy when the topic arose. By this time, however, with only a couple of weeks to go until the due date we were less guarded. We told Jane that ‘it’ was a girl, and the talk naturally moved to names.

Up until then we had also been a bit coy with regard to telling people our likely picks for baby names, just in case they were ‘baby name robbers’, who wanted to steal the outstanding baby name we had fretted over for such a long time and give it to their own babies. Anyway, at this point, we figured that telling Jane our great baby name idea was no big deal.

“Mimi,” I said.

”I beg your pardon?” came Jane’s puzzled reply.

“‘Mimi’ is our current favourite,” I said. “We want something that is short, cute, and sounds good in English as well as Japanese.”

Hitomi explained. “We want something that the kid will be happy with, regardless of whether we are living here or back in Japan. The word ‘mimi’ means ‘ear’ in Japanese, but we would use different characters to give it a different meaning. Japanese people wouldn’t think ‘ear’ when they called her name.”

“Oh,” said Jane.

“It’s easy for both Japanese people and English speakers to pronounce,” I added.

“Where do you see yourselves living in the future?” Jane asked.

“Not really sure,” we said in unison.

“Well,” started Jane. “If you think she might be going through the school system here in New Zealand, then you might want to think of a different name.”

“Why do you say that,” I asked.

“Well, when we were at school in the seventies and eighties, we would learn a bit of Maori language, right? Greetings and things, yeah?”

She was right. Learning some Maori words had been part of the curriculum for a long time. Every New Zealander can smuggly rattle off the numbers one to ten, and feel like they are exhibiting a high degree of prowess in the native language.

“So?” I queried.

“Well, things have moved on,” said Jane. ” In some schools, the kids even end up being able to hold a decent conversation in Maori.”

“OK,” I said. “So what has this got to do with our choice of baby names?” I asked.

Well,” started Jane again. “Nowadays, every seven year old in the country knows that ‘mimi’ means ‘urinate’ in Maori.”

by Mia’s dad
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

I’m not quite sure I have a name. Ever since I can remember people have always stumbled over what I think my parents intended it to be. I’m not even sure telling it would do any good. You probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. I usually just lie to people, “it’s Jerry”, to eliminate the possibility of an awkward exchange: yelling, questioning, or whispering into the ears of one another. I’m sure those of you with exotic names can agree with me that nine times out of ten when you try to introduce yourself either a stereo blasts, a party starts, a baby cries, or all the above.

It’s providence. Who or whatever up there must agree that my name isn’t a good one. Unique, yes. Good, no. But hey, I’m not complaining. Nowadays it’s not such a bad thing to have what I’ve got, that is, if you’re a terrorist. No two ID’s of mine are the same, achieving what every Al-Qaeda operative trained and ran through a remote deserted desert for: official illegitimate legal documents - all variations of one another, like a game of telephone.

It’s not my fault and it’s not my parents fault. Which, if it’s not really anybodies fault maybe it isn’t even anything. Not even a name. Just an unforeseen eruption of word vomit from my mother’s mouth after laboring for five hours in that sterile white hospital room 49 years ago.

The nurse ran in with her gray clipboard and shouted at my mother, “What are you gonna call it?!”

She said, “Jaron.”

by Jaron Hershel
Washington D.C.

“So how’s your name most commonly mispronounced?” asked Shawni, my friend’s sister. It was Memorial Day and I had been lucky enough to get invited to someone’s BBQ by my friend Dana.  As more guests jostled the metal gate to enter into the backyard, numerous introductions were made, followed by the customary enunciation of my name.

I looked at her intently for a second and replied “I don’t know, you know people have been mispronouncing my name my whole life.”

”People call her by different names,” Dana interrupted. “Debbie calls her I-dee ,..I call her Ay-day”

“Well how is it supposed to be pronounced?” asked Shawni.

“Like air in Spanish but with a d instead of an r.”

“Aidé. Aidé,” Shawni repeated in a perfect Spanish accent.

“But my family, including my mother, call me Heidi,” some of the other guests began giggling.

“How did that happen?” one of the women asked.

“I think it is the best way that my brothers and sisters found to anglicize my name, and it just stuck. In fact to this day, they enjoy calling me Heidi-Whitey.” And then all the ladies around the table laughed even louder than before.

In all honesty, I rarely notice the way people pronounce my name. Most of the time, I can tell when someone is talking to me, or about me; and for the most part I let people call me what they will or what they can, hoping that they will come closest to the best approximation of what my mother intended.  But even getting down to her intentions is problematic for me.  As the youngest of five children my siblings have important names that seem to carry their own familial and historical weight. The first set of twins (my family consists of two sets and then me), Alma and Saul, are named after people that none us children ever knew but are nonetheless important figures in the Rodriguez chronicles: My sister was named Alma which means soul in Spanish and Ophelia after my father’s mother who died at a very young age in childbirth. Saul was named after Saul Celis who was killed in a wild-west family feud style gunfight when he was 16, in my parent’s hometown; he had been my father’s best friend. The second set of twins, Emma and Bernabe (Bernie) are named after my parents.

But when I asked my mother who I was named after she said, “…I don’t remember if it was a Venezuelan soap opera actress or soap opera character…” Of course, I have no idea who this woman may have been on screen or in real life. And as much as I would like to know what Aide the actress looked like, or whether Aide the T.V. character was the charismatic protagonist of the telenovela, I find some comfort that once free of the obligation to honor their loved ones and themselves, my parents gave me a name that they simply liked and appreciated for the way it sounded. Like aire but with a d.

by Aide Rodriguez
San Francisco, CA

Confucius once said
If the name is not right
Language will carry no might
So my father created my name
By rearranging the sun and moon
Vertically and horizontally
To equip it with all
The forces of yin and yang
Dispersed in the universe

Since I became subject
To a totally different grammar
All people have complained
Or made fun of my name
So harsh and awkward
They conspire to seduce me
To adopt a familiar one
Like Michael in the powerful speech

But to retain the subtle balances
In the wild wild world I wander
To hold my father’s sunbeam
With my mother’s moonlight
I fiercely refuse to change it
Even though I often feel lost
When the sounds I hear
Do not sound like my name at all

by Changming Yuan
Vancouver, Canada

A double-yellow line
means one thing
when you’re driving
on this side of the border,

but another
when you’re the passenger,
your hands lying
uselessly in your lap

and the bored children
in the back seat foolishly
insisting on asking,
as the road turns north

and then disappears
among the barbwire trees,
why you named them
for people who were dead.

by Howie Good
Highland, NY

We haven’t been born yet. Our parents are stretched out on the couch in front of the television in their new house, quiet street, nice suburb of Boston. My mother’s socked feet rest in my father’s lap; her pregnant belly rounder than either of them thought it would be.

It is evening. Outside, the sun feels so close, we think it is setting on our parent’s new life, just for us. A light breeze makes curtains flutter and lavender shadows begin to slink across the freshly painted walls. The lawn outside is green and mowed. A yet-to-be-used swing set sways gently in the wind. Small children squat in driveways nearby, playing, digging, babbling. They will be our friends later.

There will be two of us soon. Our parents want to be surprised – the room upstairs is gender neutral. Four names are written on note cards and spread out on the floor: Lisa, Robert, Sarah, Jeffrey. Our middle names have meaning, but our first names are just names our parents like: they way they sound, they way they look. Maybe they can imagine calling us nicknames: Lis, Rob, Sar, Jeffie. Maybe they can imagine scolding us, and these names are not so harsh when said in a mouthful of disappointment. They tear off small sections of The Boston Globe, scrunch them up into tiny balls, throw them at the cards on the floor. These will be their babies. This is where they’ll play.

We know better than our parents. We know which names we want. When we come out we will scream and cry but inside we are laughing, we are squirming, we are playing. We are best friends. We are what every parent wants, but we are our parent’s children, and we can’t wait to meet them. We know they will love us. We long for their arms and their hair and the cribs that wait for us upstairs, fluffed with pillows and stuffed animals that family and friends have been sending and sending.

It’s the first of the year when we are born. For miles and miles, all across the country, streamers ripple, horns are blown, people kiss under twinkling lights. In the small, dark hospital room, the air is plush with nervous breaths. Will we be boys or girls?

My brother comes out first. “It’s boys!” the doctor calls.

“Jeffrey,” my father says, holding him for the first time. “Jeff.”

I am inside, and I am ready. I can’t wait to show them who I am. My brother has paved the way for me, and I slide out easily, but wrong. I’m upside down – the doctor turns me over and gasps.

“It’s a girl!”

“Jackpot!” my father says. He waves his arms and claps his hands. Jeffrey wails. Our four grandparents, standing right outside the room behind the door, squeeze their smiles through the tiny window.

“Name?” the doctor says.

“Lisa,” my mother says. My mother cries, and so do I.

by Lisa Gordon
San Francisco, CA

There are two stories to my name.  The mom story and the dad story, and I’m not sure if either are actually true.

The mom story goes a bit like this: Once, a long, long time ago (1982 to be exact) a very pregnant woman was enjoying a quiet walk through a field.  (No joke, my mom really was walking through a field.  She used to work at a living history museum as the blacksmith’s wife, so she actually did things like walking through fields and baking pies and spinning wool.)  She walked through the field, this pregnant woman, and thought about names for her unborn baby.  Edmund James, Tiffany Rose, Jacob Emerson, Emma Rose…  Emma Rose… Emma Rose.  And LO AND BEHOLD, the mother knew the baby would be a girl and she would be called Emma Rose.

Okay, so maybe when my mom tells it I don’t sound like the savior incarnate but that’s what happens when you hock out your newborn to play Jesus in the Christmas nativity scene.

The dad story goes like this: There was once this guy who was in love with Emmy Lou Harris.  So in love in fact that given the chance, he would gladly trade in his very pregnant wife for a little whoo-hoo with Emmy.  Not that the father is a bad guy, he’s a great guy in fact, maybe the best guy ever but truth be told, he’s still a guy.  And at times his ‘little guy’ still rules over everything else.  And even though his wife was generally considered a ‘real catch’, he still might risk all that for a shot at Emmy Lou, if given the chance.  (Twenty years later, he actually finds himself in Emmy Lou’s dressing room.  Sure, she’s beautiful.  And sure, maybe if he tried hard enough he might just get that chance. But when it comes down to it, he’s older and tired and he’d just rather go home and get into bed with his wife.)  In any case, he wants to name the baby after Emmy Lou but the wife, understandably, isn’t too keen on the idea so they compromise.

So Emma Rose the “and so it shall be” baby and Emma Rose the chick-I’d leave-your-mother-for baby.  Either way, is it any wonder I’m always uncomfortable when people call me by name?

by e. miller
Oakland, CA