Tonight I went to an open mic. There were three featured
readers, and maybe half a dozen “open mic” readers, of whom I was one. It was
in a new place for this group, called Open Expression in Harlem, a small bar
with space in a corner for music (which was going to start after we were done
at 9 p.m.), booths, and a few tables. When we started, there were people at
the bar who were not part of our group, and they continued talking to each
other as though we were background music. But as time went on, some of the
talkers left and others quieted down—and we had a real mike, which we hadn’t
had in our last venue.
Here’s what
I read:
What’s in a Name?
I must have
called her by the wrong name. She looked just like Linda at my old school, but
in the new school she was Joyce. I almost never call people by their name because
their faces shoot poison arrows when I get it wrong. There were always at least
two Lindas and Nancys and Joyces in every school I went to. If I didn’t have a name, no one could
forget it or remember it. They often spell my name wrong, with a “y” or a “j”
instead of an “i.” I never met anyone with my name until I was 30 years old.
That was exciting, like proof that I existed. A friend’s daughter was always
one of two or three Sarahs in her class. When she went to college, she decided
to change it. She polled everyone she knew on nicknames and settled on Sadie, a
name common among my grandparents. How does it feel to have a common name? When
I first went to eastern Europe, there were three other Sonias at the
conference, with the “i” and with the “j,” even a Sanya. I had slipped into a
slot that fit exactly. My name had become a tribe. My daughter’s name,
Christie, can be spelled at least six different ways, and it’s not short for
anything. She hates to see it spelled wrong, as though she is someone else. A
name has power, but to be nameless is freeing. A name ties you to one meaning,
an anchor to safety, but also a weight to drag you down.
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I’m
participating in the 13th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two
Writing Teachers. This is day 7 of the 31-day
challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a
community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to
slice about. Join in!
