Fernanda? Or Frnanda?

If my brother had not chosen to become a pilot, I am confident he would have done a major in Nagging Your Sister 101. For the 14 years of his life that he lived next to me, he found ways to perfect his technique, discover new buttons to push and craft new combinations of insults to create the perfect recipe for my emotional explosion. That being said, I was never eloquent enough to counter the constant bombarding of teasing, so rather, I went along with the flow.

But that flow, that current, started to go on hurricane alert when my brother flew down from Iceland after three years of declaring a ceasefire on my emotional sanity.

"How come you get straight 7's all the time? A mule is smarter than you are,” he said after I showed him one of my math assignments I got back that week.

"You always have to be served two glasses of water when you eat– one for drinking and the other for spilling,” he blurted out after I accidentally tipped over my glass. 

"You are not a girl. You are a troll.” he remarked after I made a stupid joke.

I was having traumatic flashbacks to when he still lived in Abu Dhabi. I had no way to put pause on him, I had no remote control to stop the constant avalanche of folkloric insults that rained on my parade. And this time around was no different. 

Previous to his arrival, I had been arduously preparing my practice speech for the Senior MUN election. I had spent hours simply trying to sound professional and academic, and I will admit, I partly did it because I knew he would be listening in, if not eavesdropping on me practicing. He really isn’t your typical older brother.

I stood in front of the mirror, with my speech held in my hand and started reciting it:

“Honored delegates and teachers, my name is Fernanda….” I had gone no further than the introduction when the closed door exploded as my brother barged in. I could feel a new insult about to roll off of his tongue. But instead of laughing and following his usual teasing procedure, he told me to pronounce my name again.

“Fernanda,” I said, a questioning feeling burbling in my stomach.

I could see how his head was working on pressing my right buttons. “Oh hello, my name is Frnanda and I am not actually Mexican, I want to sound American.” he said, mocking my speech in a high-pitched voice. 

“No no, my name is Ferrrrrrnanda” I challenged, clearly annoyed.

“But your name is Frnanda” he used the same tone again. My irritation grew, and once again, he clicked the right buttons for a nuclear bomb to explode in my head.

“Fuera!” he left, seeing he had achieved what he wanted.

I hated how he was able to master my emotions better than I did. His mocking sent all these doubts rolling down a hill of uncertainty, creating an avalanche that stirred up an identity crisis. “But I am Mexican!” I wanted to scream at him. “Heck, I am more Mexican than the street tacos from Clavería!”.

An overwhelming shame took over me. Was I neglecting the color, the rhythm and the folklore my name had when I pronounced it in Spanish? Was I drowning that part of my identity, possibly trying to sound like a gringa? Was living in Abu Dhabi taking away that flavor my name had? 

But I could still taste it in my tongue. That rolling of the r's was still as sour as the lemon juice squeezed on tacos al pastor, still as sweet as my grandma's flan and as fresh as a jicamada bought in front of Bellas Artes. Even when I pronounced it as Frnanda I felt a buzz in my tastebuds so that I remembered what the full ringing of my name felt like. 

That ring hadn't gone away. I may be Frnanda but at the same time, and regardless of what my brother says, I am also Fernanda.