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The Name I Wanted

7 The Name I Wanted: Not Ricardo but Richard, because I felt like Richard Burton—a true Anglo-Saxon in tights reciting lines from Othello, because I wanted to be as handsome as Richard Gere in a white tuxedo, because I had a pinky ring just like Richard Dawson on Family Feud, because I knew I could be just as wholesome as Richie Cunningham, just as American as my father’s favorite president, Nixon. Richard—not Ricardo, not my nicknames: El Negrito—Little Black Boy—for my skin the color of dry tobacco when I was born, or El Gallegito—the Little Galician, because that’s what Tía Noelia called anyone like me born in Spain, not a hundred percent Cuban. Not Rico, the name Lupe wrote on my desk branding me as Barry Manilow’s Latin lover in ruffled sleeves dancing conga at the Copa, Copa Cabana all of eighth grade. And definitely not Ricardito—Little Ricky—worse than Dick. Richard—descendant of British royals, not the shepherds of my mother’s family, not the plantain farmers on my father’s side. Richard—name of German composers, not the swish of machetes, rapping of bongos. Richard—more elegant than my grandfather in his polyester suit, Chiclets in his pocket, 8 more refined than my grandmother gnawing mangos, passing gas at the kitchen sink. Ricardo De Jesús Blanco, I dub thee myself Sir Richard Jesus White defender of my own country, protector of my wishes, conqueror of mirrors, sovereign of my imagination—a name for my name. ...