Two days in
And they give her
A nickname
Two syllables instead
Of three—
Her given name too full
Of beauty, of vowel, of nuance.
High school begins.
Fresh start.
The time we throw on new identities
The time we suppress the old.
I’m not allowed hugs
What makes me think I can have names?
Two syllables–
A name I didn’t chose for her
Something short, ugly
More American. Joking. Fun.
They don’t mean nothing by it.
Easy to remember:
Like knowing one’s place.
I have to be silent on this one.
It’s not my battle.
I spent a lot of time on that name,
Nine months as she turned
And kicked and got ready to be born.
I am reminded of crossings
When one of her grandfathers crossed over
having his Mayan name chopped in half
to make it easier on everyone
but the one erased.
Throwing Chanclas 