“Johanna? Yohanna?”
“Either.”
“Tell me what do you prefer.”
“Either.”
“Really tell me”.
“Either.”
Never Joanna, never Johannah. Johanna is my mothers daughter. High cheek bones and delicate wrists. Johanna, which sounds like the name of a sparrow. A Polish name that sounds certainly like a sparrow. It is the cold stones underneath your feet on Sunday mornings. Like the curve of a neck, when it tilts to look behind its shoulder.
My mother chose my name, after her grandfather, a Norwegian. His mother might have chosen his name too. He was Johannes. I suppose he was a father. Johannes means heroic acts and the dark soil that engulfs the roots of giants. The soil that supports mountains persistently scratching the underbelly of clouds. The smoke he blew from his pipe flavoring the sky and dancing with the breeze. Johannes means expectations. His face hidden behind hair. As if he wiped soot from his hand onto his rough skin. Soot that never washed away. Now, Johannes is etched on a gray stone. Johannes means expectations, and soil, and the underbelly of dark clouds.
Yohanna is my fathers daughter. Yohanna means hair that looks like smog when it is under water. It means round eyes, the color of coffee grounds. “God is gracious.” That’s what I am named. Yohanna sounds like the splashing of fountains, Yohanna is always overflowing. It means coconut water and brown sugar, and sweet things that grow in warm weather. It means tongues that roll R’s and pointed teeth that sharpen my words.
Yohanna is the pang of a violin, heard through the walls of an apartment late at night. Johanna is the taste of snow cones and the smell of a full kitchen. I am Yohanna, with hair like smog when its under water. I am Johanna, a girl with a name like a sparrow.
“Well what do you call yourself?”
“Both.”
“You don’t call yourself both!”
“I do.”
“Either.”
“Tell me what do you prefer.”
“Either.”
“Really tell me”.
“Either.”
Never Joanna, never Johannah. Johanna is my mothers daughter. High cheek bones and delicate wrists. Johanna, which sounds like the name of a sparrow. A Polish name that sounds certainly like a sparrow. It is the cold stones underneath your feet on Sunday mornings. Like the curve of a neck, when it tilts to look behind its shoulder.
My mother chose my name, after her grandfather, a Norwegian. His mother might have chosen his name too. He was Johannes. I suppose he was a father. Johannes means heroic acts and the dark soil that engulfs the roots of giants. The soil that supports mountains persistently scratching the underbelly of clouds. The smoke he blew from his pipe flavoring the sky and dancing with the breeze. Johannes means expectations. His face hidden behind hair. As if he wiped soot from his hand onto his rough skin. Soot that never washed away. Now, Johannes is etched on a gray stone. Johannes means expectations, and soil, and the underbelly of dark clouds.
Yohanna is my fathers daughter. Yohanna means hair that looks like smog when it is under water. It means round eyes, the color of coffee grounds. “God is gracious.” That’s what I am named. Yohanna sounds like the splashing of fountains, Yohanna is always overflowing. It means coconut water and brown sugar, and sweet things that grow in warm weather. It means tongues that roll R’s and pointed teeth that sharpen my words.
Yohanna is the pang of a violin, heard through the walls of an apartment late at night. Johanna is the taste of snow cones and the smell of a full kitchen. I am Yohanna, with hair like smog when its under water. I am Johanna, a girl with a name like a sparrow.
“Well what do you call yourself?”
“Both.”
“You don’t call yourself both!”
“I do.”