So after doing some power prayers to the almighty G-O-D my pregnant sister, Mercedes is not pregnant anymore. She gave birth to a baby girl this past Sunday; she’s a preemie just like her uncle was back in 1980. She’s a tiny, tiny human being…all of four pounds. The doctors say she’ll be home for Christmas. Now on to her name. My big sis named her first-born Madison. Umm. OK. She named the new one Morgan. This wouldn’t much to talk about if my sister was raised on suburbia or even married a fella of say the Caucasian persuasion. But it’s odd because she married a Puerto Rican with a Puerto Rock last name.
Of course, she can name her children what she wishes because, well, they were in her. And I’m not subjecting my boy to ridicule by naming him “Jesus” or “Jose” or any other stereotype. But how do I explain to my fellow spicaroos that I have two nieces named Madison and Morgan without cracking a smile. Maybe my sister is thinking ahead and wants her fair-skinned babies to get ahead in the corporate ladder with squeaky clean names. I just know it’ll probably be my job to add sazon to their lily-white upbringing. Plus, my mother’s broken English should make-up for anything I forget.
Uno,
Jesus
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