My mother tells me it was my father’s idea
to name me after her. She liked María del Mar—
Mary of the Sea—the Virgin patroness of Almería,
my parent’s birth city, where the sunlight bounces
off its crystalline waters. Yet, my father insisted
I should carry her name, María del Carmen—
“A family tradition,” he said—and his choice prevailed.
I was Mari Carmen for everyone, with variations
born out of affection—Carmelilla, Mari Carmencilla,
Mariquilla, even Mari. Never did I think much
of my name—its liquid and nasal phonemes, its
conjoined two words, its invisible strings pulling
me towards my mother’s belly button—that is, until
I moved to the U.S. at thirty. Jens Joyces, Brooks,
Beths, Casses, Chrises, Dees, Debs were girl’s names
I often heard spoken in my new country. Fast, short,
convenient. Mine?
Different.
Conversations with me went like this:
“What’s your name?”
“Mari Carmen.”
“Did you say Mary? María? Marie?”
“No, Mari Carmen.”
“Nice to meet you, María.”
“But I am not María,” frustrated, I wanted to say; I am
María del Carmen, Mary of the Garden, like los Cármenes
in Granada, with their fruit scents, colorful flowers,
grape vines, and citrus trees spilling out of white-
washed walls that preserve their delicate nature.
There is no Mari without Carmen, nor Carmen
without Mari. They are inseparable, the same
way that there is no me without my father,
the gardener who planted a seed in my mother,
who then gave me life and after whom I am named.