As usual, I have also my own little personal story that I would like to share, of a similar occurrence: When I was pregnant with my daughter, I tried to talk to her father about potential names for the baby. As he obviously terrified of becoming a father and wanted nothing to do with this child, he refused to even discuss the matter. Then, at the last moment, though still in anger, he made one comment: “All I ask is just be sure you give it an American name!” Her father was Cuban. It was odd, I thought, that he wanted an American name, because he was a Fidel supporter. In my heart, I wanted a Cuban name, a name that would represent her heritage. At any rate, that was the end of the subject, as I didn’t see him again after that.

Later, when I learned that the baby was a girl, I began to turn over names in my mind. A close friend of mine and his wife had named their first girl Erica, after Leif Ericson, the ancient Norse explorer. I wanted to name my child after an explorer. For me, names are more then words. They have a kind of magical power; the name chosen for a child has an effect on both the child and the course of that child’s life. I wanted her to have, above all, the spirit of adventure, of discovery. I wanted her to be an explorer of life. When I had lived in Florence, I lived almost right across the street from the former home – I think it was the birthplace – of Amerigo Vespucci, the great explorer and cartographer. On the wall of the building, there is a plaque that announces: Amerigo Vesspuci lived here. As I would stand and wait for the bus in the mornings to take me to the center, I would stand and stare at that plaque and imagine the adventures of Vespucci, wondering at the fact that he had once walked this very street I stood upon now. So, Vespucci came to my mind: If it were a boy, I thought, I could name him Amerigo! But that wasn’t an American name – it was Italian. And the child wasn’t a boy; I needed a girl’s name.

I also wanted a name that would somehow serve to link the two countries of her origin: the United States and Cuba. Then one day – I think I had been reading the diaries of Che Guevara – it just came to me: “I’ll name her America!” After all, what could be more “American” than that – her dad would certainly be happy. Of course I was not at all oblivious to the potential sarcasm inherent in this decision. I thought it fitting. He said give her an American name, so I would; although, for me, the word America did not stand simply for the United States but for the whole of both continents, North and South. The name stood not for the U.S., but for The Americas.

Up until the moment she was born, I wouldn’t tell anyone the name, as I was afraid they would all try to talk me out of it. She was born at home, in a room full of women – midwives, acupuncturist, etc.- from several different North and South American countries. When my best friend, a Chilean, cut the umbilical cord, I said: Everybody, meet America!

Only about a week later, I learned that “America” – though it is a name almost completely unheard of in the United States – is actually a very popular Cuban name.

Love,
Savita