Just Anthony

When introducing myself,

I begin with a simple hello.

Followed by my name.

Simple salutations,

Smile on my face.

Hand reached out before me awaiting the shake.

Then the words trip out of their mouth.

“Just Anthony?”

As if wanting my name to include some sort of accents and complex pronunciation

My name is just Anthony.

It may not match the stereotype associated with my skin, but it’s what I prefer to be called.

Faces sink in as if unimpressed with my seemingly common name.

Leaves me thinking if the name I was born into isn’t worthy of my

Thick hair. . .

Full lips. . .

Seasoned skin.

Is my name taking away from my heritage?

Is my appearance something that should have dictated my name?

What’s to say my name isn’t more Hispanic than his?

What allows you to say that a name isn’t Hispanic enough for me?

A name has nothing to do with race, or heritage.

It has no connotation to what I believe in or what I follow.

Just because our skin is a tint or two darker,

Doesn’t make my roots deeper.

Don’t ask if I’m Hispanic or Latino

Don’t ask me if I speak Spanish

Don’t assume I speak Spanish

Don’t assume my name will somehow speak for my skin.

That some native tongue will take charge.

It hasn’t faced the lifetimes of my ancestors

It wasn’t brought up in a Spanish speaking house

It didn’t endure years of culture forced upon people too attached to change.

My name isn’t dignified by my skin

My skin isn’t dignified by my name.

My name accounts for what I do.

It is built on everything I push myself to do.

This name stands for a lot more than my culture.

Not dictating me on what to believe in

What language to speak

What flag to raise.

My name is something that was lost in cultural diffusion

And found meaning again when I decided to do good.

My skin and name have no relations.

My name is Anthony,

Nothing to do with centuries of immigrants and culture I was never apart of

Just, Anthony.