My Name (Esperanza)

from Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street

In English my names means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It means sadness; it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like sobbing.

It was my great-grandmother’s name and now it is mine. She was a horse woman too, born like me in the Chinese year of the horse – which is supposed to be bad luck if you’re born female – but I think this is a Chinese lie because the Chinese, like the Mexicans, don’t like their women strong.

My great-grandmother. I would’ve like to have known her, a wild horse of a woman, so wild she wouldn’t marry. Until my great-grandfather threw a sack over her head and carried her off. Just like that, as if she were a fancy chandelier. That’s the way he did it.

And the story goes she never forgave him. She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow. I wonder if she made the best with what she got or was she sorry because she couldn’t be all the things she wanted to be. Esperanza. I have inherited her name, but I don’t want to inherit her place by the window.

At school they say my name funny as if the syllables were made out of tin and hurt the roof of your mouth. But in Spanish my name is made out of a softer something, like silver, not quite as thick as Sister’s name – Magdalena – which is uglier than mine. Magdalena who at least can come home and become Nenny. But I am always Esperanza.

I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name more like the real me, the one nobody sees. Esperanza as Lisandra or Maritza or Zeze the X. Yes. Something like Zeze the X will do.

My Name (Mrs. Amy Heusterberg-Richards)

Growing up my friends would boast about their name-sakes. “I am named after my Grandma Anna.” “My parents named me after my wonderful Aunt Louise.” I would sit silently, slowly pecking at my peanut butter sandwich. Though quite thankful I myself did not have a Louise in the family, I had been named for no one.

Amy. Just saying the name leaves a small, stingy feeling in one’s nose. Amy: my parents had simply liked the name. It suits you, my mother explained once. Suits me? Am I suited by a short, nasally title that is not even deserving of a nickname? My close friend, Jenny, is Jennifer in her profession and Jen with her softball team. My friend, Alli, upon college graduation, received a diploma with “Allison” beautifully scribed in the “degree conferred upon” line. Mine reads “Amy.” I will always be Amy.

Having the name I do can largely be contributed to my being born in late March. Had I, in fact, been born in April, my parents would have named me for my birth-month. (Apparently, they were very unoriginal.) As an elementary school student with a sizable obsession with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, however, not having the name April was a major frustration. Though my yellow hair and bossy nature almost always guaranteed me the part of the turtles’ faithful reporter friend on the playground, having the name April would have enlisted me as the permanent Ms. O’Neil (and ensured that I got to play with all the attractive eight year old boys at recess).

If, on that crisp, March morning, I had been able to name myself, I would likely be standing here today a Kimberly, Katherine, or Amolia (in honor of my late grandmother). And tomorrow, if the mood suited me, I might arrive as Kim, Katie, or Molls. As Wayne and Leah had other plans however, I will instead be Amy this and every day. This name, I suppose, is a bit of a blessing as colleagues and students alike have been known to cringe at my last: Heusterberg-Richards. Let’s not even get started on that.