My Name

2016 Brave New Voices
#iTooAmAmerica Contest
Shineque, Trinidad and Tobago
My Name




It is 8:45 am.
The roll is being called.
I watch as the teacher struggles to pronounce my name, attempting once, twice, three times
failing each time
eyebrows knitted
close together
eyes squinting
as if this would squeeze the pronunciation from the page before her
I sit waiting.
Waiting for her to ask me for the proper pronunciation.
I wait until I can feel the weight of each eye in the room rest on me
she is looking me directly in my eyes
then altogether forgets about pronouncing my first name
and says my middle name.
"Emily?"

See that was the first real thing I was taught in high school.
That African names that don't follow the slave master's rules are still hard for some white folk swallow.
So, I am unable to rest easy in my chair,
my chair urged me to get up,
to say something,
but Emily can't, see
I went through most of my life without a name,
not having anything to identify with.
This land is not my home
I had to learn how to speak all over again
because they said that my original accent only accentuates my skin that stands out like an accent in a Spanish word in an English sentence

I needed to pick my struggle.
So I struggled to silence the beat of African drums in my tongue,
I tried to steady the rhythm that was up in my words every time I speak.
I chose the struggle I could control.
Because I could not control the fornication of my ancestors
as they allowed the sun to make love to their skin out of wedlock,
I chose the struggle I could control.

So now, this seven-letter, three-syllable brand given to me by my parents
became a brand esteemed  higher than any designer name,
it became alive and danced the beat of African drums in my tongue
and moved to the rhythm that was up in my words every time I speak
through sweat and heat came a child of 'I belong'
a child of sun-kissed skin and rumpy hair
a child of my name
is Shamiso
And it is of Shona origin
it means astonishing event, marvel

and I sometimes sit and marvel at the fact that it took me 8 years to learn how to say my name
See in school they taught me names that brought back too many painful memories,
names that my ancestors were forced to wrap their tongues around,
their tongues forced to love a strange language.
See, I'm sorry Mr. Wordsworth,
I can not relate to sonnet "Composed Upon Westminister Bridge",
since slaves did not have the luxury of taking long leisurely walks on Westminister Bridge,
they were too busy working.

See that is why I was given my name
my name is my shield, my voice, a two-edged sword,
we need to learn our names that are written in blood on the hands of many white men.
How does it feel to wrap your tongue around a strange language,
to force your American tongue to love every syllable of my African name,

It is 8:45 am.
The roll is being called.
The teacher looks at me,
"Shamiso?"

See I told my teacher something she never learned in school,
you either learn my name or choke on my roots --
my name is Shamiso.
My name is Shamiso.
Put some respect on that.