Shacondria Sibley
Whenever someone asks me the meaning of my name, I usually never have an answer. I remember looking for it once in a computer at a shopping mall kiosk, where the meanings of names are saved and ingrained into keepsakes, thinking all the while that the chances of me finding my name would be like the odds of winning the sweepstakes, you know; slim to none. I got tired of people mispronouncing it so I shortened it to Con . My name is pronounced Sha-con-dria-uh. No silent letters, no accents, preferably pronounced with the growl of a Southern accent, it’s much sweeter that way. I remember there was once was a day when I wished my mother would have stuck to something simple and pretty and majestic like Tiffany or maybe even Alexis but my fate  was sealed by signatures on my birth certificate granting me the right to forever bear the shame of having been given a ghetto ass name. So this poem is for all the little black girls with big names. The Shons and Ishas and Onnas and Iquas who were told never to write their name for an application. We live in a nation where your name can tell someone your race or even your social status, cuz some think that only dumb old ghetto folk overuse the alphabet.  A book can’t be judged by its cover nor its title and the story beneath your name can’t be contained beneath the ties so sisters let them rise, and take your rightful places on your applications and business cards, that’s part of your uniform and then one day, ghetto ass names will become the norm but for right now, we are special you see. And there ain’t another girl in the world with a name like you or me. So go forth and rep proudly for all the ghetto-named girls, and if someone happens to mispronounce your name, make sure you give your name a swirl and correct them.  Its pronounce Sha-con-dri-uh. Say that shit right or don’t say it.