My name is a strong name. Short, sweet, to the point. My name is after a character in my Mom’s favorite show. My name is 30 years in the making. I was named before I was even an idea. My name means “mensch.” My name is almost never spelled correctly. So many variables. My name was “Cah-koo,” because my little sister had trouble saying it. My name is not generic. My name is short, but big and tall. My middle name is the uncle I wish I had met. It means countless stories of my Mom’s little brother. My last name means a man bringing his whole family to America from Europe without a job. It means running from the Holocaust. It was what my grandfather thought would fit in. My name isn’t Corey. Nor is it Kory. Or Korey or Cori or Kori. My name is having to spell it every time. My name is Hagrid on the mat. It’s Rojo Grande in “La Clase de Espanol.” To my parents it’s Bacchacalupe. It’s a name my grandfather would use. To my other grandfather it is Corporal, my initials are CPL.
My name is going to be in movie credits or announced before I come on stage. My name is the name of a champion. My name is the name of a lover and a fighter. My name is not shared by anyone in the district, at least how I spell it.
My name does not define me, I define it.