“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet…” ~ Juliet { Act II Scene II, Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet }
When I was a child, I remember being asked to recite my full name—as though it were a line of poetry. Those born into Spanish-speaking families usually relate to this plight… We tend to be given names which are a mouthful to say & must, therefore, be committed to memory—like long tethers to our luscious lineages…
My full given (& legal) name is Cecilia Milagros Llompart Borges… But I came prepared to list the maiden names of both of my abuelas, too—if I felt cheeky, or eager to flex my language skills (as most precocious youngsters are wont to do—especially when adults are present & asking). Here, I begin to dissect this name…
Having moved to Florida as a toddler who could barely manage one language, I was able to blend a second one into my daily rotation more seamlessly than either one of my parents. Despite being the first to learn English, my father’s strong accent & struggle to translate some of the more technical terms of his trade directly impacted his ability to secure work here—which threw him into a severe depression. My mother became the sole provider as a freelance artist & architect, but that put such a strain on our new family that their marriage nearly dissolved. Thus—after acquiring two breeding dalmatians to celebrate my first birthday stateside—we left the coastal, but less developed bay-area of Tampa & finally settled into the largely Puerto Rican neighborhoods which seem to make up the majority of the suburbs surrounding the city of Orlando.
Central Florida is where my memory solidifies into reels I can actually see, hear, feel… Memories I can recall using all of my senses: The morning of my little sister’s birth, or being gently pushed on the swing-set by the bilingual boy who lived in the house behind ours. The places we lived in now also had long names which I liked to say out loud: Indigenous names like Kissimmee (which I quite enjoyed spelling), & Poinciana (which sounded lovely regardless of how it was pronounced). I was developing—or perhaps simply discovering—an innate fascination for languages at this early age… I had already witnessed first-hand how language could make or break a family, as well as the powerful role it played in everything from our self-esteem to our ability to survive in a place. I gathered that we were different—because of the language(s) we spoke.
Since I was learning more than one word for each & every thing, I suppose I also managed to grasp from the get-go that the same person could answer to more than one name… By the time I could hold a conversation, I could do so in two languages fluently & was beginning to appreciate that each name also came with its own—different & rather colorful—personality: I was Cecilia, but also Ceci to my family, Cecilita to my abuela, & Cecilia Milagros to my mother when I was in serious trouble… Yet I only became Cecilia Llompart—the name that would someday become my author name—when I started Kindergarten & entered the American school system: One in which students have one first name & one last name, & in which nobody seems interested in learning about names—far less in being corrected when they mispronounce or misspell them.
To be continued…
What’s in a Name? {Pt. 2}
“What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth.” ~ James Joyce { Chapter 9, Ulysses }