Yo soy Camaria Vanilla Mammoth

             I was born Kamaria Jamila Monmouth. But somehow, over the years, my name has transgressed from its original state to one that better fits other’s inept pronunciation skills. The first time I remember my name being mispronounced was in kindergarten.

            “Mammoth! Willy Mammoth!”

             Oh God! I ducked my head under the coloring table in shame. Some little chubby pale kid with curly Carrot Top looking hair was laughing at me. “What kinda dopey name is that?” Hmm…I thought about it.

            “Well, actually you the mammoth! You are plump and big just like one too!”

            Diarrhea of the mouth. Oh no! Carrot Top started wailing and blubbering as he complained to Mrs. Karen. Mrs. Karen dragged me over to the corner where I was left to rot in eternity, my only prison buddies being filthy rats that sometimes peeped their heads out from their little holes. To tell the truth, I really didn’t regret saying what I said even though it meant that I would be forced to endure a timeout session. Actually, I was kind of proud of my psychic skills. I knew that in about thirty more years Carrot Top would be just as hairy, smelly, and big as a mammoth after years of deteriorating his physical health by guzzling cans of beer and being a couch potato 24/7.

            What I hated the most though was not Carrot Top and the way he made me feel that day, but rather the expression on people’s faces every time they tried to pronounce my name. First would come the confused look, loss of breath, draining of oxygen from the lungs. Then would come the stuttering, tongue swelling, red face, until a “C-C-Camaria” came out. I would always have to politely tell them, “No, Kamaria.”

            They still wouldn’t get it.  I pronounced it more slowly. “Ka-ma-ri-a”.

            Now they got it. “I’m sorry I just thought your name was Camaria. Unusual name. It’s not English, is it?”

            “No. It’s Swahili. Kamaria Jamila means like the moon beautiful. My last name Monmouth is British.”

            Usual head nod. I had one teacher named Mr. Falco who seemed to take pleasure in making fun of my name. “Camaria means a big mess in Italian!” The usual burst of laughter bouncing out of people’s throats would come after. It was funny though. I never knew a mispronunciation of my name actually had a meaning in another language.

            I recall a time back when I resided in the east end of Houston when people had transformed my name into a more “Mexicanized” version. I went to a mainly Hispanic middle school. Actually, I was the only “full” black person at my middle school. There was a kid named Jacob who I thought was fully black but he turned out to be half Salvadorian. There was also a girl named Melissa but she turned out to be half Mexican. Well, being the only black person at the school, they liked to give me pet names. I was always “Camaria” or “Maria”. Never Kamaria. I tried to correct them but at the end of the day they would still say, “Bye Camaria!” or “Bye Maria!”

             People are just that way; they always want to call you by a name that fits their pronunciation skills. Just the other day I was walking home from school with Olivia, this super cool chick that has dreadlocks and looks just like Whoopi Goldberg when I was accosted by guys. I could hear Olivia’s feet in front of mine. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. She turned the corner. I turned the opposite corner. The sound of her footsteps disappeared down her street. I kept on walking, passing by the sounds of a growling pit-bull throwing a tantrum fit behind its wooden prison cell. The guys were behind me now.

“Hey, miss. Miss? Hello? Hello?”

            I turned around. A skinny tall black guy with cool designs in his hair and a chubby black haired Hispanic dude was staring at me. I stopped. Started walking towards them.

            “What?”

            The black guy was looking away from me, looking at the sky. “You don’t come out much do you?”

            He was referring to the fact that no one in our neighborhood actually comes out of our houses, instead we just get fat like caterpillars and wait until the morning to emerge like butterflies out of cocoons.

            “No.”

            He looked at his friend. “See I told you. No one comes out here.”

            He stared at me, took in the whole image of me, then paid attention to detail. I wondered if he noticed my uncouth hair. It needed to be permed. Bad.

            “Hey, what’s your name?”

            I had a problem with giving strangers my name. I always lied. Cherry Berry worked for MySpace. I doubted that this guy would fall for that though. I gave him my middle name. “Jamila.”

            “Vanilla.” He licked his lips like a fox. That grossed me out. “That’s a pretty name.” I was about to correct him again but I gave up realizing that he was still going to call me Vanilla no matter what. I bet he was going to use it as one of his pick up lines for later.

            He would start with, “Vanilla. I would love to taste your creamy sweetness.” Or “Vanilla you would taste so good mixed with chocolate”. I didn’t wait to hear what ever words he was about to say as I just started walking away.

            He was calling out in the distance, “Hey-miss-could I-could I have your number?”

            I acted like I didn’t hear him and continued on walking. When I got inside my house, I slumped on a couch and just sighed. Something told me that no matter what, I could never escape the fact that I would always be “Camaria Vanilla Mammoth” to people. At first it made me mad. Then I just accepted it. It didn’t matter whether people knew how to say my name or not. I was still in my heart Kamaria Jamila Monmouth. And that was all that mattered.