[ WP ] `` Names are made to be spoken . ''

My mother is still at work, but my father is at the table. He leans in his chair like a kid my age and his hazel eyes rest on the pages of a small paperback book that reclines in the slope of his left hand. The San Francisco sun tints the tablecloth a golden hue as the afternoon draws into the evening. 
 
 I promptly and unceremoniously dump my bag on the seat opposite him. His eyes flick up to mine, and back down to his reading. I don ’ t say a word and briskly make my way past him towards my room. 
 
 “ How was school today, bud? ” 
 
 I scoff and glance back at him. 
 
 “ What do I got ta do make you spill what ’ s bothering you? Or who, for that matter? Girl problems? ” 
 
 He pauses. 
 
 “ Guy problems? ” 
 
 He laughs. 
 
 “ It ’ s that group of guys again, ” I say cautiously. “ Always picking on me for how I look and the way my name sounds. I mean, I would think they must be out of ideas by now. ” 
 
 “ It ’ s not the end of the world, but it ’ s extremely frustrating, ” I add quickly. 
 
 My father sighs a little bit and motions me over to the table, gesturing me to sit down. There ’ s a riffle of pages as he marks and closes his book. He smiles a roguish smile, one that my friends say I share with him, and begins to speak. 
 
 “ When I got my papers stamped by that officer and took my first steps into America, I could have changed my name right then and there and made it all Anglicized. Then you wouldn ’ t have to deal with it, you know? ” 
 
 I open my mouth, intending to suggest that he should have, and close it again. 
 
 “ I decided to keep my name the way it was, ” he continued. “ I learned English, read all the American greats, got rid of the accent, hell, I became good enough at English to meet your mom here. ” 
 
 I notice his eyes flash, not with anger, but with spirit. He ’ s a small guy, but ever since I was a boy, I ’ ve always seen him hold his own. I respected him for doing so. 
 
 “ I ’ m proud of being an American. I ’ m just as patriotic as our neighbors, if not more. But I never forgot -- never will forget -- my own culture. It ’ s something to be proud of, and something that you should be proud of too. You listening? Every civilization has its ups and downs. Look at the Ancient Romans. Like them, we are descended from an empire that was, at its height, one of the greatest ever. Self-sustaining, consistent, you name it. Artistically, we created some majestic pieces. I think I took you to see one, and you didn ’ t like it, but come on! We even invented the gunpowder that Europeans needed to do what they did best! ” 
 
 He chuckles. 
 
 “ Of course, we ’ ve had to go through famine, poverty, and conflict. Every nation had to at some time period in their history. But the point I ’ m making is that you shouldn ’ t be ashamed of who you are or who your parents are. It's harder for people to bother you that way. I had to think about issues like these when I came here, and I realized that being an American wasn ’ t exclusive. You and I have every right to be proud of our parents ’ culture just as much as we are proud of those who sacrificed themselves for our freedoms right now. ” 
 
 My dad ruffles my dark brown hair and, in the light, his black hair looks strikingly similar. His eyes carry a fiery pride, a determination to not give up what he holds dear. My dad is a fighter. 
 
 “ So next time someone says that your name sounds like someone banging pots and pans together… ” 
 
 I can ’ t resist a laugh, and he laughs along. 
 
 “ Say, ‘ Damn right, and we make some pretty damn good food with ‘ em, too ’. ” 
 
 The two of us let out a stream of guffaws, and we both stand up and hug each other. 
 
 “ Love you, kid, ” Dad says. “ Mom ’ ll be home in a bit, I got ta go pick her up from the station. ” 
 
 “ Love you too, Dad. Thanks. ” 
 
 I walk to my room smiling, thinking about the far-fetched possibility of one of my dad ’ s ancestors being an emperor. A famous painter, maybe? A general? 
 
 The long hallway of our house is still bright in the setting sun. 
 
 My father ’ s voice, still with a hint of amusement as I hear him searching for his car keys, echoes down the hallway, following my footsteps. 
 
 “ Remember -- names are made to be spoken! ”
