We got to talking and she asked me my name. First names are okay to give in New York for chance encounters. A full disclosure is an invitation you might not have intended. I told her my name was Dallas. “Like the football team?” she asked. Then she told me her name was Clinique … like the cosmetics. She was serious. I started making a list: Corolla, Toyota, Keisha, T’Keisha … Modisha. All actual names of women or young girls I’ve met. I can’t help but wonder, what does it mean when, in an effort to have an identity—unique, historic, individual, ours—black folks resort to total invention? Ultraviolet, Sahara, Tiffany, Ebony, Kenya. We invent ourselves by going down a list of consumer products and picking one from column A, two from column B. Dallas … because my mother was sentimental about her hometown. Why not Deborah or Diane? Is it because they are of European origins? Too white? Which is still better than being called a “Ho,” a bitch, a black bitch, zebra, oreo, pinky, high yellow … nigger.
