One of the strongest memories I have of my first elementary school was that of hiding in a corner of the gym, taunted for the unfamiliar syllables that I had unintentionally attempted to cram down my classmates throats. You see, when a pale kid from the south side of Lowell opens his mouth and foreign sounds come out, he becomes somewhat of an enigma, an anomaly, simply - different. He may look no different than George, or Patrick, or James, play ball the same way Steve, or Sam does, but when the teacher stumbles over his name during roll call, eventually he is designated as an object of scorn.
It was almost a relief when, my first summer playing baseball, the assistant coach, an old Italian man, decided to nickname me “Rico”. I no longer had to cling to a name that had been dragged through muddy playgrounds and stuffed under dusty bleachers, I was free from the oppression of the soft ‘k’ and unvoiced ‘v’ that had painted a target on my back. I had earned the name Rico, emulating the shortstop heavy hitting legend that came to the coach’s mind when I stepped up to the plate or fielded the ball. I made it my own.
It was when I went to college, left my hometown, which, by the way, prides itself on its diversity, that I realised that I had been stripped of my ethnicity. “Rico” was a construct to simplify my existence, optimized for palatability, easily rolling off of undeveloped tongues. My name embodies my heritage, it was chosen, by a priest halfway across the world when I was born. The crisp ‘R,’ delicate ‘k,’ and unvoiced ‘v’ are trademarks of the language of my culture.
I am musician, a leader, and a mentor. I am the firstborn son of my family, the eldest, the trailblazer. The two syllables that so many stumble over embody who I am, and have become a link to my heritage, a piece of history that I cherish each time it is spoken.
I no longer hide behind a flimsy shield of assimilation.
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