know my name


Statue of Frederick Douglas in New York City

my heart broke so suddenly when the professor called my name with the wrong letters, wrong pronunciation, and wrong notion. i soaked in the the very lard my grandmother once cooked with. that happened minute 45 i believe. maybe it was my fault for coming late to class, for i had to finish a quite polemic letter protesting more faculty members of color. 

my name is all that i have in the world. when people misspell it, call me the wrong name, call me john, call me anything i have not asked them to call me i get furious inside. the fire rose in me yesterday only to send me into a rage of reading last night on Art Theory. i wonder why names are so important to me. i wonder why i have been so infatuated with my name being spelled right. most likely it is because my mom told me “don’t no one call you something you ain’t.” 

in knowing my mom protested to my dad that the “e” on my name would stand for her name, i can only become inflamed when my name is not spelled or called correctly. one luv!




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