‘Can I just call you Mo?’
I pause.
I smile and nod, because I’ve learned that it’s just easier than saying no.
Mo-ha-mmed.
Three syllables. Each like stars forming a single constellation – my parent’s language, my
grandparent’s traditions, my own story.
Three’s too much, however.
Too long.
Too unfamiliar.
Too… foreign.
‘Can I just call you something simpler?’
I hesitate.
Simpler for who?
‘…Like Pri?’
Priyanka feels like a story ripped in half.
Each syllable was chosen, each word placed deliberately to form a rhythm – a song.
But they play around with it, as if it’s their story.
It’s not your name.
It’s not your history.
Not your choice.
‘Can I just call you Z? It’s hard to pronounce Zainab.’
I sigh.
It’s only hard when you decide it isn’t worth the effort to try.
You never struggled with Beethoven.
Never scuffled on Tchaikovsky.
Not even supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
But me?
Seems tricky.
Seems different.
Seems… Muslim.
‘Can I just call you anything else?’
I blink.
‘…Like Andy?’
I don’t flinch. I don’t fold. I don’t filter my identity for some easier route.
‘It’s Andrés.’
My name flows through the tip of my tongue.
Like a tongue twister.
It feels awkward the first time, mispronounced.
Foreign in your mouth.
But once you’ve said it right, it sticks with you.
You claim that you don’t want to be disrespectful.
But the disrespectful thing is dismissing it.
Not trying.
Not caring.
Not bothering.
‘It’s just easier.’
I smirk.
Maybe it’s easier for you.
But it’s never been easy for me.