Names Have Stories
A name is not just a label—it is a story. It carries the echoes of ancestors, the hopes of parents, the weight of culture. It is a thread that ties you to where you come from, even when the world tries to pull it loose.
To mispronounce a name is not merely a slip of the tongue—it is a small act of erasure. A quiet rewriting of history, as if to say the way you arrived in the world needs editing before it can be accepted.
I have spent my life listening to people stumble over my name. At first, I would correct gently, then quickly forgive. I learned to make it easier for them—offering shortcuts, abbreviations, palatable versions. But over time, I realized that every time I allowed it to be reshaped for someone else’s convenience, I was letting pieces of it—and pieces of myself—slip away.
Now, I assert it. I pronounce it fully, clearly, without apology. I let it stand in its entirety, with all the music and meaning it was given. Because it matters. It matters to me, to the people who named me, and to the identity I have built from it.
Names are not things to be sanitized or simplified for comfort. They are declarations:
I am here. I belong. And I will not be erased.
