My last name is Ramón. If you spell it Ramon, you are spelling it incorrectly. My Puerto Rican abuela drilled this into my head growing up. I know I come from very proud cultures. Even my Haitian mom used to draw accent marks over the ‘o’ on the back of my soccer jerseys when I played. I wrote it on every paper, and I remember the feeling of disappointment when it wasn’t there on my awards and certificates and things like that.
If you’ve ever been called by the wrong name, or had your name mispronounced, you know how uncomfortable it is. This happens even more frequently among minorities. Like when we’re mixed up with the other brown kid in class, or we’re asked to be called something else. Over time, it feels demeaning, hurtful and even like we’re invisible. If this hasn’t ever happened to you, consider it a privilege.
People ask, ‘who are you?’ and the first thing we respond with are our names. At the very core of our identity is this single label that encompasses everything that we have been, everything that we are, and everything we hope to be. One label for all of the intersecting parts of our identities. Perhaps this is why when people are transitioning between the two traditional genders, they often forgo their birth name for one that better suits who they’ve truly always been, and want to be.
When we bring our Latin names to English spaces, and leave those tildes off, it feels like we’re leaving a part of ourselves behind. It’s true that every time we enter a new space, we are entering into a new context. But what we bring with us, are our social identities. Those identities, particularly race and ethnicity, transcend the English speaking American context.
In college, I learned how to use the key code alt+162 on PCs, and learned to hold down the ‘o’ on Macs for the various options. Hell, I’ll copy and paste it when necessary. Because when you learn to place a tiny mark like that, you are nodding to a greater legacy, to people who crossed oceans and vast lands, whether they were seeking opportunity or fleeing persecution. This entire legacy lives on in the person sharing a space with you. Face it, we all have histories.
Perhaps even more importantly, it’s speaks to the representation of diversity in a room. That accent mark is signal to those who share that identity, estamos aquí y no nos vamos. We’re here, and we’re not leaving. That can mean the world to someone who goes through most of their life being the only minority in a room.
Something as simple as pronouncing a name right, or spelling it correctly is a big way to honor who someone is and where they come from. There are so many subtle things we can change with language to honor who someone is and where we come from. Just something to think about the next time you come across a name with an unfamiliar character or mark.
