Hello. My name is Alejandro Gac-Artigas. It’s a funny name, one that had terrorized many a substitute teacher calling roll throughout elementary school.

Olijondro? Alahandro? Ali…Aluh…A.. I rescue them with an interrupting “Present,” knowing the matter would be resolved no sooner than a blind man playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

The uncomfortable dance around my name’s 21 letters began the very day I arrived at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, as a customs officer scrutinized my family’s passports. Carrying only the boxes we could carry and armed with one-way tickets, I suppose we were worth a second look. I had come to a place where a name I had shared with countless faces in Puerto Rico had become an eyesore, a hassle, a menace.

The flimsy front door of our rundown apartment separated this new world from the fading memory of home we preserved inside; the sounds of r’s rolling, the smells of arroz con gandules cooking, the warmth of a family from an island where family means everything. I knew that when I left this world for school every morning, “Alejandro” would not sound the same for a very long time. And I learned to deal with that.

Better and better each time, learning to intercept each substitute teacher as soon as he or she paused at the sight of my name. Always waiting a hopeful but ephemeral moment, I learned to recognize the discomfort in their eyes and quickly saved them the trouble. Present.

And then the strangest thing happened.

Alejandro?

Ah-le-han-drro?

The substitute teacher looked me directly in the eye, and pronounced my name correctly. While his accent betrayed his Anglophone identity, the fact of the matter was that every syllable he uttered challenged any pronunciation of those 9 letters suggested by the conventions of English.

As quickly as he had read the previous name, he read mine. The word “present” remained caught in my throat. Like a cat ready to pounce only to find that its prey had vanished, my words sunk clumsily in this unfamiliar situation. The teacher looked at me, knowing well by the color of my skin that I was the only kid in the room who could claim ownership to that name. I raised my hand to signal the words that could not escape my perplexed lips, and without hesitation the substitute teacher moved on to the next name. Brian Matthews.

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