When I was 11 years old, someone I admired said to me, "Every Keshia I know is a hoe."
A year or so before this proclamation about Keshias' promiscuity, I heard a most explicit song by rapper, Lil Wayne. Its title and subject was about a girl named "Kisha." My name kept cropping up in derogatory ways. The connotation of Keshia was negative, and I, as a little girl, internalized the messages. I felt shame about my name. It translated into shame about my being.
"Kechias," the little girl me reasoned, "are ghetto hoes. Am I ghetto? Am I hoe?" At 11 years old, I was having an identity crisis in silent intensity. "Names matter." This message was sealed in my young mind through religious teachings. "Abram became Abraham. Jacob became Israel. Saul became Paul. And, I am a Kechia." This, couple with things I will not detail yet, meant I was fucked.
It took me a long time not to want to be an "Anne" or "Emma" or "Susan." For years I was hyper concerned about being perceived as ghetto. My code-switching was exacerbated by a belief that I had to work extra hard to suppress my name-imposed nature. The impact on my fears and beliefs concerning my sexuality is another conversation for another day.
Gosh, the 11 year old me dealt with shit on top of shit. If I could travel in time and convince her she is not utterly defective, I would. Since I cannot, I will correct you with a rebellious, determined ferocity EVERY. SINGLE. DAMN. TIME.
"It is LeKechia. No, it's pronounced Lee-Kee-sha. Correct; it is spelled with ch, not sh. Yes, that is an upper case K. Yes, you may call me Kechia."
Am I ghetto? I can be.
Am I hoe? That is subjective.
Am I doomed? Nope. Baby, I'm destined.
P.S.:
(1) Please, I beg of you, be the information gatekeeper for your children. Ask probing questions. Have age-appropriate, but honest conversations. Little humans go through real shit too! They need our help making sense of this intractable world.
(2) Fact-check the people your kiddos admire and correct them as necessary. Your child's hero may be an asshole.
(3) From the ratchet and obscene to the poetic and cerebral, I love rap, but messages matter. The rap I grew up listening to ridiculed my name, devalued my complexion, and undercut self-esteem. Kat Williams sentiment don't apply to minors. (You know what I mean if you know what I mean. 🤷🏿♀️)
