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Illustration by April Dela Noche Milne
I am the only Maida I know. This is true in Uruguay, where I was born, and in Canada, the country that guided me through girlhood. My name has roots in some Portuguese sitcom where my mother heard “Maira” and decided she liked the dedicated thud of “Maida” more.
My name is passed between grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles and cousins like warm bread at the dinner table. It is also a piece of jewellery that rattles when I walk, snagging the senses of everyone who supports that family. The teacher who ushers generations of us through classrooms. The baker who bags our pastries. The hairstylist who covers our greys.
To them, I am My-dah. “Mai” like “my.” A proud claim.
Maida is also My-dah to strangers who see their culture in mine. The woman who watches a gaggle of kids after school. The man who paints houses in the neighbourhood. The girl in the park who looks like me. The people who feel my name in their guts like their heritage.
One day, like many children, I descended the steps of my house and came back a different person. I don’t remember who first fumbled my name, much less how it happened, but I accepted it.
May-dah. “Mai” like “may.” Possible but improbable.
The people who knew how to pronounce my name sang, and the rest squeaked. May-dah removed the doubt, but it also silenced the music. In my mind, this was a fair trade. I wanted to be easy to approach and easy to remember. So easy that you would never see the first generation immigrant desperately trying to win you over.
Each time I return to Ireland, I draw strength from its ever-changing light
May-dah followed me to university, where I raised my hand without breaking a sweat. It earned me tips when I made self-deprecating jokes while waiting tables. It sparked relationships when people mistook an embarrassed girl for a humble one. It carried me to my people-pleasing peak, and the smaller I became, the greater my gravitational pull.
I started my career with this mindset. I smiled while I stockpiled the stress of other people, and I disappeared the rest of the time. Back then, there were a handful of people who believed it was their right to take up space, and the rest of us.
When words such as diversity and inclusion went from occasional e-mails, to modest initiatives, to critical departments, the tide turned. There were new voices speaking up and new perspectives breaking into our boardrooms. The idea of bringing your whole self to work was born.
Companies raced to fumigate their workplaces, driving out old ideals about culture, gender and identity, and replacing them with new terms and lessons on empathy. It was useless to mean well if you didn’t commit to doing better. The shift was good for business, but terrible for me. Now, I was out in the open.
It was hard to stand by May-dah because my pandering became obvious. I couldn’t change the subject or throw in a joke. Whenever someone slipped a My-dah in, I’d swat it away, but those moments multiplied quickly. At one point, half my colleagues were calling me by one name, half were calling me by the other and all of them were challenging me.
I had to answer for my crimes against myself, and I had no idea how. When you mispronounce my name and I correct you, it creates an expectation. I was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of people earning my respect. I was also terrified of them rejecting me. I had to confront both things while doing something as simple as confirming my name for a coffee order.
Losing a tree so soon after my Mom helped me see her a little better
As cultural nuances became common practice, strangers across my life were being delicate with my consonants and pushing through my vowels. I couldn’t believe how many people were holding themselves accountable for a name I never bothered to protect. It was a beautiful sentiment and a painful realization.
As time went by, I allowed my world to sing My-dah and squeak May-dah, and when I was ready, I started to teach. It was a shaky process that became a core value: I’d rather set a standard than steer a first impression.
Today, I fold my arms and wait on the other side of my standard. I won’t bulldoze my barrier, whether you struggle all the way up or slide all the way down. When you finally make it over, we’ll both be better for it.
My name is Maida. “Mai” like “my.” A proud claim.
Maida Sosa-Velazquez lives in Toronto.