Thou shalt say my name

I never liked it when people consistently forgot my name. You might say it’s a pet peeve of mine. I’d get a little ticked off, a little offended, and I’d attribute the slip to carelessness and disrespect. I’m a bit more sensitive about it than others. Allright, so now imagine myself in a country where NOBODY remembers my name. It’s not even that it’s an exotic, weird name to remember—I go by Marina down here, a fairly common name, and even so the entire population forgets. They call me the north American girl (or sometimes the German girl, interestingly enough), or muchacha, or gringa, or Courtney (after the former Peace Corps volunteer who lived here, a girl who looked nothing like me), or Madrina (which the high schoolers call me because they know it ticks me off), or they call me nothing at all.

The only people that seem to remember me are the bolos. Bolos are Honduran drunks. I live underneath the only drinking establishment in town, and every time I pass by I hear a chorus of bolos making kissy noises and screaming “MARINA!!!!!!!” There could be a bolo on the verge of passing out in the street-- if he sees me he will never fail in a hearty “MARINAAAAAAAHHHHH” before drifting into unconsciousness. Love em or hate em, at least the bolos know me here.

That’s okay, right?