How Do U Say My Name Is In Spanish – “Why are you saying your name like that?” asked my cousin after hearing me say it on my podcast. “That’s why my name is called,” I smiled.
It may seem strange to you that my cousin does not know how to pronounce my name correctly. However, before you express an opinion, understand that she has company. In fact, I used to be among those numbers, because I didn’t know how to pronounce my name all my life. It wasn’t until recently—seven years ago, actually—that I learned how to pronounce my name correctly.
How Do U Say My Name Is In Spanish
The reasons why it took so long are many: I am the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, which makes me the first Nigerian-American. The cost of immigrating to the United States is prohibitive. The cultural tax imposed on immigrants may be difficult for outsiders to understand, but for those within the community, the amount is significant. The cost of leaving home, heritage, heritage, wealth and family in hopes of a better future for one’s children is high. I call this
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, and it is paid forever and left to posterity. The cost of this tax is reflected in the children’s inability to speak their parents’ language, their ignorance of their parents’ culture, and their preference for American food over their parents’.
My parents calculated the immigrant tax they would pay: they added the benefits, subtracted the costs, and multiplied the change of hope. He came to America face-to-face with his bill; They were not in the mindset that they would raise American children, because my brothers and I were born in America. That’s why my parents made me and my sisters ethnic so that we don’t forget our roots – even though, ironically, my parents were born under colonial rule in Nigeria and were given English names.
Victor was my father’s nickname, and he always hated it because, as he said, “people call their dogs Victor.” Little did my father know that I would also come with a complicated relationship with my name; Not because of my name, but because of how people will respond to my name. My father is dead, but in my opinion—and at least, on my father’s part—maybe my parents’ choice of names for my sisters influenced their decision to emphasize their authority over their parents’ choices. We were created by assigning tribal names that were not given to them. The juxtaposition of their English names with our Nigerian names will forever remain a mystery in my mind.
However, long before we could say “father,” “grandfather,” or “America” for that matter, my parents had the foresight to understand how the culture and identity of Americans would permeate the hearts and minds of their children. theirs; So they chose to give us the names Ibibio-
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The names serve as a 7,800-mile bridge that runs through the Mojave Desert of California, skims the tops of the Great Lakes of Michigan, and splashes across the Atlantic Ocean, leading me to the village of Nung Ukana in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. This is a place I have never known; I will never forget him, because he lives in my toothy smile, he lives in the depths of my soul, and he comes out of the ice, “Nigerian hair.” It’s in my DNA.
On the phone, the correct pronunciation of Akemini is: Eh-KEH-mi-knee. My name speaks of God’s provision. Literally, it is translated into English as “God’s time is best,” “God’s time is perfect,” or “God’s appointed time.” So, how did my name end up with its beautiful meaning with countless killer accents that go beyond sound recognition?
The key in the breathed form is: EK-uh-mee-nee. For three quarters of my life I have said my name like this. It is a basic statement for me, because for many reasons, I was never taught to say it well, starting with the simple truth. Also, my parents never taught me how to pronounce Ibibio, so I never fully mastered the language from which my name comes. And finally, as I was growing up, ninety percent of the time my parents called me by my family nickname—which would be private.
On rare occasions they call me Akemini, they use the correct pronunciation when talking to family or when I am in trouble. However, when they are around Americans, they will not use the wrong pronunciation because that is how Americans pronounce Akemini. My parents—and me, by extension—chose the path of least resistance, which implies the wrong expression—
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Wherever I find myself, whether it’s at school (“EK-uh-mee-nee”), church (“EK-uh-minny”), the doctor’s office (“EK-uh-MY-nye”) or at home . Jamba. Juice, (“Ek-uh-hmm I can’t pronounce this.”), microaggressions will surely follow, hovering over me like nimbostratus clouds. As I write this essay, I still underline each letter with my name. There is no escape.
As a result, the loop of shame and hatred in my name has become an important part of my life. Even now, the two are difficult to separate. Which came first? Did shame precede hatred, or did hatred of my name lead to shame? Do I really hate my name, or do I hate how people respond to my name? Am I annoyed that people can name off Beyoncé, “Tchaikovsky, and Michelangelo and Dostoyevsky,” or even a fictional character named Daenerys Targaryen, but can’t be bothered to learn the correct pronunciation of my name?
Probably all of the above. The human spirit is a wonder, it resists our efforts to put ourselves in the midst of confusion.
It’s hard to see the forest when you’re a tree. Although my vision was blurred, I could still see the tree descending around me, representing all the names of my butchers and the nicknames of my colleagues. And just as our nose can detect odors no matter how bad or hot, I have a sense of smell for all my names. In fact, depending on how others pronounce my name, I know the level that different people have entered into my life.
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My childhood friends and cousins call me EK-Uh-mee-nee and often use my family nickname, which makes sense because we grew up together, and we consider my friends like family or “cousins.” game.” It is done, if you will. At university, my friends call me that, but their nicknames for me are “eh-kee” or “ek-uh”. It was hard enough for me to lose my name and hear those nicknames from college, but when I did, I had to admit: I was hooked. Not for the nickname, but now I realize that I was back then. In those days, I didn’t have the knowledge and the system to fix what was wrong.
After I graduated from university, things started to change for me. I went with Aunty Ikwo (whom I call Antimom) and Uncle Mike for two years, to establish myself. My aunt is my second mother, and she always pronounces my name correctly, with the assurance and confidence that only a Nigerian aunty can manage. She and I never talked about the language politics of my name and the shame I suffered because of it. In fact, I’m sure she doesn’t understand that I’m ashamed of my name, because shame has a way of shutting people’s mouths. Shame rarely reveals itself. Instead, he chose to sleep on Lajjit’s ear.
Thank God there is no shame for the aunt. I don’t know—with her—he faces court every day in the comfort of his home. Every time she said “eh-keh-me-knee,” the shame and disgust of my name began to fade away, as their pride and desire made their new home in my heart.
As life would have it, I moved to a new city and state to pursue graduate school. I don’t know a soul, so from the first time I meet new people, when I register my car at the DMV, when professors call my name in class, and when I decide to say my name correctly. Phone with a customer service representative. After being empowered to work hard to overcome shame and contempt for twenty years because of my name, I now hold honor, pride and love for my name. I can no longer stick to spelling and spelling my name wrong. This new found love and pride in my name protects me from the daily temptation to go against what is best for others.
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Mine
