Published in the New Literati, St. Edward's University Magazine. (Spring 2021 Issue)
I was nineteen when I learned to write my first name. The letters “L-o-r-a-l” watched me from the other side of the pencil with crooked lines and an uneven “o.” Momma gifted me the name, the only thing I had left of her. I’ve always understood that this name was more than something to call myself; it’s a cavern I would have to grow into. Mr. James prefers to call me other things, trying to nail hate to my heart with a broken hammer. “Whore, bastard, and Negro” are the first, middle, and last names he gave me.
Mrs. James is a different kind of creature, with a kindred heart and mind for teaching.
She may look withered and afraid, but she walks with a back that doesn’t bend from a beating. “Ruth” was the second name she taught me to write. Mrs. James says it means “friend;” it’s a robust sound that reminds me I was free in my past life. Sometimes I can almost taste it when I awake from a dream, a lingering flavor of cold lemonade and sugar biscuits. Mrs. James sneaks over sugar treats sometimes during our lessons, smiling through black eyes and purple checks. Lady’s powder doesn’t do too much for a fair complexion discolored by a bad man.
She says the last name is the most important because it’s passed down to your children and their children long after you’re gone. Sometimes it’s something forced on you, being fathered by a bad man. Other times it’s chosen when love finds its way into your forever. My last name originated from a wild-tempered man with lustful eyes for young black plumbs. Like a brand, it simmers and burns my skin. I was born with her hair and his eyes, into a world that does nothing but criticizes.
-- Loral Ruth James
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