I hate my name, or maybe just my hometown.
A poem by Nickie | June 13, 2026
I hate my name.
I remember telling my parents that
as we were in a hotel elevator,
descending to the ground floor.
It's boring. Everyone has it. It's common.
At least my middle name is a little more unique.
Even though no one ever spells it correctly.
Maria is everywhere.
Maria Sophia, Maria Isabella, Maria Elena.
Call it in a doctor's office and three people stand up.
The name slapped onto a housekeeper's name tag
when the manager is too busy to speak to the new employee
with broken English.
The comedic relief in the shows written
to make the true Americans in my hometown laugh.
Then, I left.
"Maria"
called me to walk the stage three times.
The name on my lips when I extend a hand.
Who the checks are issued to.
The name on the deed.
M-a-r-i-a
Five simple letters that no one misspells,
everyone remembers.
Sweet serenades from
different generations.
Santana, Brooks & Dunn, West Side Story.
The hands of Marias carried me forward.
I stood on their shoulders to see the sun rising
over the horizon,
created by barriers intended to keep us trapped,
to keep the town alive.
My namesake,
the Tía who won the race
to Heaven.
If not Maria, I am no one.
