the name i wanted
Not Ricardo but Richard, because I felt
like Richard Burton—a true Anglo-Saxon
in tights reciting lines from Othello, because
I wanted to be as handsome as Richard Gere
in a white tuxedo, because I had a pinky ring
just like Richard Dawson on Family Feud,
because I knew I could be just as wholesome
as Richie Cunningham, just as American
as my father’s favorite president, Nixon.
Richard—not Ricardo, not my nicknames:
El Negrito—Little Black Boy—for my skin
the color of dry tobacco when I was born,
or El Gallegito—the Little Galician, because
that’s what Tía Noelia called anyone like me
born in Spain, not a hundred percent Cuban.
Not Rico, the name Lupe wrote on my desk
branding me as Barry Manilow’s Latin lover
in ruffled sleeves dancing conga at the Copa,
Copa Cabana all of eighth grade. And definitely
not Ricardito—Little Ricky—worse than Dick.
Richard—descendant of British royals, not
the shepherds of my mother’s family, not
the plantain farmers on my father’s side.
Richard—name of German composers, not
the swish of machetes, rapping of bongos.
Richard—more elegant than my grandfather
in his polyester suit, Chiclets in his pocket,
more refined than my grandmother gnawing
mangos, passing gas at the kitchen sink.
Ricardo De Jesús Blanco, I dub thee myself
Sir Richard Jesus White
defender of my own country, protector
of my wishes, conqueror of mirrors, sovereign
of my imagination—a name for my name.
by Richard Blanco
like Richard Burton—a true Anglo-Saxon
in tights reciting lines from Othello, because
I wanted to be as handsome as Richard Gere
in a white tuxedo, because I had a pinky ring
just like Richard Dawson on Family Feud,
because I knew I could be just as wholesome
as Richie Cunningham, just as American
as my father’s favorite president, Nixon.
Richard—not Ricardo, not my nicknames:
El Negrito—Little Black Boy—for my skin
the color of dry tobacco when I was born,
or El Gallegito—the Little Galician, because
that’s what Tía Noelia called anyone like me
born in Spain, not a hundred percent Cuban.
Not Rico, the name Lupe wrote on my desk
branding me as Barry Manilow’s Latin lover
in ruffled sleeves dancing conga at the Copa,
Copa Cabana all of eighth grade. And definitely
not Ricardito—Little Ricky—worse than Dick.
Richard—descendant of British royals, not
the shepherds of my mother’s family, not
the plantain farmers on my father’s side.
Richard—name of German composers, not
the swish of machetes, rapping of bongos.
Richard—more elegant than my grandfather
in his polyester suit, Chiclets in his pocket,
more refined than my grandmother gnawing
mangos, passing gas at the kitchen sink.
Ricardo De Jesús Blanco, I dub thee myself
Sir Richard Jesus White
defender of my own country, protector
of my wishes, conqueror of mirrors, sovereign
of my imagination—a name for my name.
by Richard Blanco