Yes, you heard that right. America. Like the United States of America. No, not a miracle. No not ‘I’m Erica’. America.
I’ve been named America ever since I was born, although I can only recall it becoming a topic of interest since the age of six when little kids in elementary school started to call me ingenious names like American Cheese or the Big Apple. From then until I became about 15, my name was more of a curse than it was a blessing. Sometimes, I wondered what my parents were thinking when-on what I presume was the happiest day of their lives- they decided to screw me over to such epic proportion.
And so there I was with a four syllable, unforgettable name. When I was a nuisance, I hated it. But when I did well, it was great. Fortunately, it was usually the latter, to the point that my siblings became known as America’s sister or America’s brother — I’d like to take this moment to apologize for depriving you of an identity throughout your high school years, Bibi and Juanqui.
Needless to say, my name shaped me in a variety of ways.
As a youth, it may not have been the most positive; but when I look back, I can say it helped me build character. Being “bullied” helped me become strong willed and capable of defending myself. My name did that to me. It was a name that called attention, and while sometimes it wasn’t the best kind of attention, it influenced the person I grew up to be.
Then, in college, I came across more open minded people. They were more intrigued by my name than critical of it, saying things like,
Wow! That’s a beautiful name!
Or
How patriotic!
It’s funny how maturity turns douche bags into intellectuals.
Anyway, this sparked curiosity in me. And I decided to investigate the motive behind the name, so I asked my parents how the brilliant idea arose. My mother explained that in fleeing the Cuban communist regime, she had moved with my father’s family to Spain, where she became pregnant. Not wanting to endure the cold Spanish winters she, like many other Cuban refugees, decided to move to the more Caribbean Miami. Unaware of the 1966 Cuban Adjustment Act’s “wet foot, dry foot” policy, my parents boarded a plane with fake European passports and headed to the land of the free. Ironically, when they arrived in the US, they were immediately put in prison. Luckily, my mother was very pregnant and they were released. I was born shortly after and, in gratitude for the humanitarian laws of this country, my father named me America.
So my name was not only a name, it was a story; one that gave me an advantage: it became an icebreaker in my life. People were first intrigued by it and then fascinated by its history. Sometimes a bit too much. Especially the cheesy guys claiming to be Columbus in hopes of discovering the New World… No thanks, haven’t heard that before (insert eye roll emoji). Other than that, my name became my identity. After all, It is a name that carries power and presence, and I felt it gave me just that.
Today, I wear it proudly even when people confuse it for another name or sometimes giggle when they first hear it. For better or worse, no one forgets it, which can sometimes be a problem (especially when I’m doing something I’m not supposed to — then I say Erika), but it’s usually a good thing.