I am this girl with a funny name. You can thank my mom for that, as well as for my complex about how I’m Hispanic with a name that in Spanish is the female version of Christ; yeah, I'm not really sure how that works either. I always know when someone gets to my name on the list. There’s a long pause, and a glance upward as if to say, ‘I know you’re in here you little jerk, now just tell me how to say it so I don’t have to apologize for botching it.’ I always make them say it. In the eighties, when I was a kid, I really wanted my name to be Roxy or Danielle. These were sumptuous names with big Aqua-Netted bangs, and oversized-off-the-left-shoulder sweatshirts. I wanted to be those girls much more than a catholic-school-going, plaid-jumper-wearing frump. The hand dealt to me has had other interesting plans though. I was the chubby girl. The defy your parents and go to a Baptist church girl. I’ve eaten a jar of mayonnaise in a bet. I’ve been in love once, but I think I forgot. I've fallen out with a best friend. I dated an asshole. Went to Venezuela. Panama. Canada. Mexico. Costa Rica. Scotland. England. Thought escaping was transformative; still do. Decided that if I was going to say something it should be important, and figured out that at the end of the day, my family will be the only ones that are always there for me, even though they gave me a funny name.
