I have an official full name- three legal titles that each label me as "different"- and somewhere in between these titles, ‘Alexandra’ and ‘Denise’ exist. My younger self-acknowledged these additions as if they were separate individuals despite the lack of legal recognition. So, by the time I was in the eighth grade, I was curious as to who ‘Denise’ could be and with pride I chose to become her.

Ironically, in my desperate attempt to make her "different" from any other Denise, she became ‘Dhynisse’, which seemed intriguing enough. I wrote her on the right-hand side of my papers, scribbled her throughout my notebook, and even told my peers as well as my teachers that she is really me. My history teacher, Mr. Van der Haegan, attempted to honor my request, but for some reason, maybe because I became her towards the end of the year, she just did not stick. In response, I changed my name to something simpler and closer, ‘Ozi’, but oddly, she didn’t work either. Instead, every morning as he marked a check by each name during attendance, he would come to a halt at mine. Although he made a note of the change with a strike through ‘Ozichi’ and a quick scrawl of the new person underlined beside it, he would pronounce ‘Ozzy’. The soft sound of my voice as I tried to deliver the correct pronunciation would fade into the distance as the class laughed. Mr. Van der Haegen would simply smile as if it was my own fault that he could not state my name. So, I soon returned to ‘Ozichi’. And she was unusual in my class, my school, my small suburban hometown.

I did not have an accent. I was born in San Pablo, CA. I believed that I did not have strong features nor did I have traces of the scent of crayfish on my clothes like my friend. Yet, people could read ‘African’ on me. I convinced myself that it was my name. Ozichi. It was so obvious that something was different, some might say unique, but back then it was weird. I did not want to be weird, unusual, or odd, but could not understand that my name, these six letters that were born into existence before my own material body, was not the indicator that my very presence was weird, unusual, and odd.

As most Igbo names, ‘Ozichi’ holds a religious meaning as it literally translates to "a message from God" and he has always been present in my life as I was raised Catholic. Currently, I understand myself as more spiritual than religious so I do not attend mass every Sunday, but I pray every night or at least try to do so and while I have not read nor intend to read the Bible, my confirmation name honors the Saint Philomena. However, it is my grandmother who reminds me of godliness and somehow her devotion seems more than enough for where I lack. Each morning she listens to televised 5 a.m. mass, returns to her bed where she prays the rosary, then rises again around 8 a.m. to eat breakfast and cut out images of Jesus that she glues on cards. She gives these decorated cards out to loved ones on their birthdays with a note that she included their name on the list to receive prayers during mass. She sends pocket change from her Social Security checks to some organizations out of the plenty who flood the mailbox asking for prayers as well as, of course, money, during the holiday season. Then she returns to her prayers- prayers that have become a part of her nature.

My grandmother did not learn this just from anywhere as she grew up in a time where the presence of British foreigners reconfigured the physical space of her home country and continues to seep through the heart of Nigeria. As a small girl, she attended a boarding school that was overseen by reverend sisters who made sure that their pupils were proper ladies and faithful servants of God. These sisters were on a mission to aid the lost children of Nigeria and bestow upon them faith, which would somehow teach them how to properly exist, a psychological thriller. I assume that they believed they were creating civilized ‘Christians’ or maybe there was a genuine desire to deliver a sound education for these global citizens. I suppose they did a fair job because my grandmother did pursue higher education and as soon as she came of age, she went to school in Britain. Yet, for this global citizen, the moment that she stepped into an English classroom, she was aware that she was different. Even with the name, Grace, she was different.

afriqaandamselle

Writing since January 2017 · 1 story contributed