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My Name is Ana
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by Ana Cancino
My paternal family branch has made it a point to recycle the exact same first names over the course of three generations. My grandmother had thirteen children and they are all a combination of Evos and Evas, Emilios and Emilias, Antonios and Antonias. Victors and Victorias.
My name is different: Ana Belém.
The day my birth was registered, my father wrote my name in cursive “n.” The official wrote “m.” I, however, stubbornly write my name with an “n” because the correct spelling of my name is common sense. Belén. For the next thirteen years I lived in Mexico, though, my will didn’t matter, because, as per my mom’s ingenuity or the official’s arrogance, or even my destiny (who knows!), I was to misspell my own name. My mother kept on repeating the official’s mistake and inscribed “m” everywhere possible. I walked Grammar School with an “m” on my forehead. Belém.
BUT, when we set foot in the States, as a sign of progress, or a diminutive rebellious act against the Mexican system, my mother Americanized my name. In other words, she butchered it so it could fit in the American system. And just like that, Ana Belém Castellanos Cancino was cut to Ana Cancino. Short and sweet.
After a decade of not calling my abue, ie. Eva the first woman, aka my father’s mother, I decided to delete the ridiculous Wall that separated us and say “hi.” (As if it were that easy, right?) After a minute or so of silence, her first word was “Belém.” Followed by, “When will you be back?” And then I felt it. I felt like a lost sheep. Abel calling me to the sacrificial stone. So, no sé, I said. “I know,” she tried to reassured me, “it's hard to find your way back.”
It’s hard to go back to space I no longer fit. I can’t place myself between the overflowing Evos and Emilios and Antonios and Victors and Manuels, the feminine derivatives, and the combinations thereof.
My name is Ana. I ride my bike. I listen to Bhangra and read Kant. I like vermicelli noodles and Maker’s Mark. I like the Shattuck Cinema and City Lights. I live in a two-bedroom apartment and I’m about to have a cat.
My paternal family branch has made it a point to recycle the exact same first names over the course of three generations. My grandmother had thirteen children and they are all a combination of Evos and Evas, Emilios and Emilias, Antonios and Antonias. Victors and Victorias.
My name is different: Ana Belém.
The day my birth was registered, my father wrote my name in cursive “n.” The official wrote “m.” I, however, stubbornly write my name with an “n” because the correct spelling of my name is common sense. Belén. For the next thirteen years I lived in Mexico, though, my will didn’t matter, because, as per my mom’s ingenuity or the official’s arrogance, or even my destiny (who knows!), I was to misspell my own name. My mother kept on repeating the official’s mistake and inscribed “m” everywhere possible. I walked Grammar School with an “m” on my forehead. Belém.
BUT, when we set foot in the States, as a sign of progress, or a diminutive rebellious act against the Mexican system, my mother Americanized my name. In other words, she butchered it so it could fit in the American system. And just like that, Ana Belém Castellanos Cancino was cut to Ana Cancino. Short and sweet.
After a decade of not calling my abue, ie. Eva the first woman, aka my father’s mother, I decided to delete the ridiculous Wall that separated us and say “hi.” (As if it were that easy, right?) After a minute or so of silence, her first word was “Belém.” Followed by, “When will you be back?” And then I felt it. I felt like a lost sheep. Abel calling me to the sacrificial stone. So, no sé, I said. “I know,” she tried to reassured me, “it's hard to find your way back.”
It’s hard to go back to space I no longer fit. I can’t place myself between the overflowing Evos and Emilios and Antonios and Victors and Manuels, the feminine derivatives, and the combinations thereof.
My name is Ana. I ride my bike. I listen to Bhangra and read Kant. I like vermicelli noodles and Maker’s Mark. I like the Shattuck Cinema and City Lights. I live in a two-bedroom apartment and I’m about to have a cat.
