My parents named me after my great uncle Raymond,
a motorcycle cop who died before I was born.
But they spelled me Ramon because they didn’t
want me getting the nickname Ray.
And I have honored their wishes, keeping
my Hispanic name affixed to a Southerner
from North Carolina, confusing many, and
warding off Ray sayers.
My middle name came to me compliments
of a descendant on my grandmother’s side, a Williamson,
who was killed in the North Africa campaign in WWII.
No, my middle name is not William
or Williamson. My great-great uncle’s name
was Louis. No, he wasn’t French.
With such a name, how did I, Ramon Louis,
become a pastor and a psychologist?
With this name ( pronounced Rah-MON Loo-WEE )
I should be an internationally renowned tenor
with a loft apartment near the Met, or
an acclaimed artist whose paintings remind critics
of Monet during his blue period in Giverny.
At least an award-winning chef, an icon fashion designer,
or a celebrity stylist. “I just love your hair! You simply
must tell me the name of your hairdresser.”
“It’s Ramon Louis but darling you’ll be
on a waiting list longer than Rodeo Drive.”
With such a name I could have been a migrant
farm worker in California, or part of a landscaping crew
in Tennessee paid every Friday in cash under the table, or
a Cuban refugee squeezing out a life in south Florida.
I could have a name badge from a fast food restaurant
and an address in Reynosa, Mexico where I send as
much of my check back to my family as I can.
I could have my name etched on a simple
grave marker in Suarez, the town and slow death
I could never escape from.