I’ve always wondered what it would mean to live as a Sue Johnson, or a Billy White, or maybe even a Marsha Walters. My name knows no bound for it represents two very different worlds, both of which I will never be fully apart of. I look to my parents who strongly hold onto their identities as Igbos first and foremost and never anything less. How can I compete with the homely cooking of my mother or the slow and steady tone of my father in front of a crowd? I can do neither and would chastise myself for my failure to understand the importance of having something to hold onto from my culture. That is when I remembered. The name given to me that marked me as an outsider to both sides of my culture. My name. A name that no one can pin to any one place or any one personality because I embody them all. A first name picked by my parents in gratitude to the doctor that saved my unborn self from death. A middle name picked with high hopes for my future. Picked with the expectation that I will one day have kids. My last name it is a sign of the old and new. The first name of my paternal grandfather mixed with the first of his own father. My name isn’t just divided by geography. It is divided by new and old tradition. I only wonder what that makes of me.