Julia Alvarez is a Dominican-American poet, novelist, and essayist. Alvarez was born in New York but spent the first ten years of her childhood in the Dominican Republic until her family had to flee the country due to her father's involvement in a political rebellion. Much of Alvarez's work focuses on her experiences as a Dominican in the United States. In this essay, Alvarez discusses the multiple names she has been given over the years.
As you read, take notes on how the author reacts to the different pronunciations of the names discussed in the text.
When we arrived in New York City, our names changed almost immediately. At Immigration, the officer asked my father, Mister Elbures, if he had anything to declare. My father shook his head no, and we were waved through. I was too afraid we wouldn’t be let in if I corrected the man’s pronunciation, but I said our name to myself, opening my mouth wide for the organ blast of a, trilling my tongue for the drumroll of the r, All-vah-rrr-es! How could anyone get Elbures out of that orchestra of sound?
At the hotel my mother was Missus Alburest, and I was little girl, as in, “Hey, little girl, stop riding the elevator up and down. It’s not a toy.”
We moved into our new apartment building, the super called my father Mister Alberase, and the neighbors who became mother’s friends pronounced her name Jew-lee-ah instead of Hoo-lee-ah. I, her namesake, was known as Hoo-lee-tah at home. But at school I was Judy or Judith, and once an English teacher mistook me for Juliet.
It took me a while to get used to my new names. I wondered if I shouldn’t correct my teachers and new friends. But my mother argued that it didn’t matter. “You know what your friend Shakespeare said, ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’.” My family had gotten into the habit of calling any famous author “my friend” because I had begun to write poems and stories in English class.
By the time I was in high school, I was a popular kid, and it showed in my name. Friends called me Jules or Hey Jude, and once a group of troublemaking friends my mother forbade me to hang out with called me Alcatraz. I was Hoo-lee-tah only to Mami and Papi and uncles and aunts who came over to eat sancocho on Sunday afternoons — old world folk whom I would just as soon go back to where they came from and leave me to pursue whatever mischief I wanted to in America. JUDY ALCATRAZ, the name on the “Wanted” poster would read. Who would ever trace her to me?
My older sister had the hardest time getting an American name for herself because Mauricia did not translate into English. Ironically, although she had the most foreign-sounding name, she and I were the Americans in the family. We had been born in New York City when our parents had first tried immigration and then gone back “home,” too homesick to stay. My mother often told the story of how she had almost changed my sister’s name in the hospital.
After the delivery, Mami and some other new mothers were cooing over their new baby sons and daughters and exchanging names and weights and delivery stories. My mother was embarrassed among the Sallys and Janes and Georges and Johns to reveal the rich, noisy name of Mauricia, so when her turn came to brag, she gave her baby’s name as Maureen.
“Why’d ya give her an Irish name with so many pretty Spanish names to choose from?” one of the women asked.
My mother blushed and admitted her baby’s real name to the group. Her mother-in-law had recently died, she apologized, and her husband had insisted that the first daughter be named after his mother, Mauran. My mother thought it the ugliest name she had ever heard, and she talked my father into what she believed was an improvement, a combination of Mauran and her own mother’s name, Felicia.
“Her name is Mao-ree-shee-ah,” my mother said to the group of women.
“Why, that’s a beautiful name,” the new mothers cried. “Moor-ee-sha, Moor-eesha,” they cooed into the pink blanket. Moor-ee-sha it was when we returned to the States eleven years later. Sometimes American tongues found even that mispronunciation tough to say and called her Maria or Marsha or Maudy from her nickname Maury. I pitied her. What an awful name to have to transport across borders!
My little sister, Ana, had the easiest time of all. She was plain Anne — that is, only her name was plain, for she turned out to be the pale, blond “American beauty” in the family. The only Hispanic thing about her was the affectionate nicknames her boyfriends sometimes gave her. Anita, or, as one goofy guy used to sing to her to the tune of the banana advertisement Anita Banana.
Later, during her college years in the late sixties, there was a push to pronounce Third World names correctly. I remember calling her long distance at her group house and a roommate answering.
“Can I speak to Ana?” I asked, pronouncing her name the American way.
“Ana?” The man’s voice hesitated. “Oh! You must mean Ah-nah!”
Our first few years in the States, though, ethnicity was not yet “in.” Those were the blond, blue-eyed, bobby-sock years of junior high and high school before the sixties ushered in peasant blouses, hoop earrings, sarapes. My initial desire to be known by my correct Dominican name faded. I just wanted to be Judy and merge with the Sallys and the Janes in my class. But, inevitably, my accent and coloring gave me away. “So where are you from, Judy?”
“New York,” I told my classmates. After all, I had been born blocks away at Columbia – Presbyterian Hospital.
“I mean, originally.”
“From the Caribbean,” I answered vaguely, for if I specified, no one was quite sure on what continent our island was located.
“Really? I’ve been to Bermuda. We went last April for spring vacation. I got the worst sunburn! So, are you from Portoriko?”
“No,” I sighed. “From the Dominican Republic.”
“Where’s that?”
“South of Bermuda.”
They were just being curious, I knew, but I burned with shame whenever they singled me out as a “foreigner,” a rare, exotic friend.
“Say your name in Spanish, oh, please say it!” I had made mouths drop one day by rattling off my full name, which, according to the Dominican custom, included my middle names, Mother’s and Father’s surnames for four generations back.
“Julia Altagracia María Teresa Álverez Tavares Perello Espaillat Julia Pérez Rochet González.” I pronounced it slowly, a name as chaotic with sounds as a Middle Eastern bazaar or market day in a South American village.
My Dominican heritage was never more apparent than when my extended family attended school occasions. For my graduation, they all came, the whole lot of aunts and uncles and the many little cousins who snuck in without tickets. They sat in the first row in order to better understand the Americans’ fast-spoken English. But how could they listen when they were constantly speaking among themselves in florid-sounding phrases, rococo consonants, rich, rhyming vowel?
Introducing them to my friends was a further trial to me. These relatives had such complicated names and there were so many of them, and their relationships to myself were so convoluted. There was my Tía Josefina, who was not really an aunt but a much older cousin. And her daughter, Aida Margarita, who was adopted, una hija de crianza. My uncle of affection, Tío José, brought my madrina Tia Amelia and her comadre Tía Pilar. My friends rarely had more than a “Mom and Dad” to introduce.
After the commencement ceremony, my family waited outside in the parking lot while my friends and I signed yearbooks with nicknames which recalled our high school good times: “Beans” and “Pepperoni” and “Alcatraz.” We hugged and cried and promised to keep in touch.
Our goodbyes went on too long. I heard my father’s voice calling out across the parking lot, “Hoo-lee-tah! Vámonos!”
Back home, my tíos and tías and primas, Mami and Papi, and mis hermanas had a party for me with sancocho and a store-bought pudín, inscribed with Happy Graduation, Julie. There were many gifts — that was a plus to a large family! I got several wallets and a suitcase with my initials and a graduation charm from my godmother and money from my uncles. The biggest gift was a portable typewriter from my parents for writing my stories and poems.
Someday, the family predicted, my name would be well-known throughout the United States. I laughed to myself, wondering which one I would go by.
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Notes
AllDefinitionsFootnotes
a popular song by the English rock band the Beatles
referring to a maximum high security federal prison on Alcatraz Island where the most infamous criminals were sent
a traditional soup in several Latin American cuisines
a phrase commonly used to refer to the developing nations of Asia, Africa, and Latin America
Ethnicity (noun) : a social group that shares a common, distinctive culture, religion, language, or race; belonging to such a group
blanket-like shawls
a typically open-air market in a Middle Eastern country
Florid (adjective) : overly flowerly or elaborate
extravagant
Convoluted (adjective) : extremely complex and difficult to follow
Spanish for “a child raised as one’s own”
Spanish for “godmother”
Spanish for “close female friend”
translates to “let’s go!”
translates to “cousins”
translates to “my sisters”
translates to “pudding”
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Assessment Questions
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How does Julia's perspective on the pronunciation of her name develop as she grows up in America and over the course of the text?
1 answer
Julia Alvarez's perspective on the pronunciation of her name evolves significantly throughout the narrative, reflecting her complex relationship with her identity as a Dominican-American.
Initial Fear and Shame: In the beginning, when the family arrives in New York City, Julia experiences fear and reluctance to correct the mispronunciation of her father's name. This fear stems from a broader anxiety about their immigration status and a desire to fit in. She describes her internal struggle with the pronunciation, feeling the beauty of her name ("opening my mouth wide for the organ blast of a") in stark contrast to how others butcher it. This sets the tone for her initial discomfort with having her identity reduced to an abbreviated or mispronounced name.
Adaptation and Acceptance: As the narrative progresses, Julia begins to adapt to her various names and their pronunciations. Her mother argues that the specific name doesn’t matter, quoting Shakespeare to suggest that identity can be flexible. Julia starts to embrace names like "Judy" or "Jules" as a way of fitting in with her peers. This acceptance indicates a desire for belonging and assimilation into American culture, which contrasts with her Dominican roots.
Struggles with Identity: During her high school years, Julia’s longing to be "Judy" increases as she wishes to escape the perception of being a "foreigner." However, she also experiences shame when her classmates inquire about her origins, highlighting the tension between her American identity and her Dominican heritage. In moments of frustration, she expresses her desire to distance herself from her cultural roots while being deeply aware that her Dominican background remains an inseparable part of her identity.
Cultural Reconnection: The turning point in Julia's perspective occurs when she proudly recites her full name in Spanish to her classmates, highlighting the depth and richness of her cultural heritage. This demonstrates a shift from embarrassment to pride. However, when introducing her extended family, she still experiences discomfort with the complexity of their names and relationships, which further illustrates her struggle to reconcile her two worlds.
Final Reflection: By the end of the essay, Julia reflects on the future of her name and identity, pondering which name will be most widely recognized in America. This indicates a full-circle moment where she has come to terms with the importance of her name styles, recognizing that each aspect of her identity—both American and Dominican—shapes who she is.
Overall, Julia's journey with her name is a metaphor for her broader experiences with identity, acceptance, and the nuanced interplay between her Dominican roots and American upbringing. She ultimately arrives at a point of embracing her multifaceted identity while still recognizing the complexities associated with her names.
