In English, my name denotes culture; In Spanish, it represents a beautiful bird with a sonorous melody. It means devotion, it means standing out. It is like the number seven. An ardent yellow. Alondra is the “All Star” ringtone that plays prior to lengthy conversations with friends, a song like laughter and delight.
My name is summer a moment of happiness and harmony. Low and slow. It is a 1950’s Chevy impala. Hidden under the ordinary. My name bellows, “Here I am, look over here!” Emerging towards the surface, aching for attention. It was selected for its uniqueness and simplicity.
Seventeen years ago, my parents chose this name. It’s pursued me through time, and it’s still mine. They, like me, did not get to decide. My mom detested her name to the extent she chopped it in half and discarded a fraction of it. Despite the fact my father named Daniel, called David, like his name it was the incorrect one.
And the story goes: my parents live with their names, distorted and wrong. I speculate, “what is my name destined to become?” Alondra. My name is striking like a blow to the face. Mesmerizing.
Alondra, the sky of adventures I am lost in during my vivid daydreams, made of toasted marshmallow clouds. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. With this, I secrete emotions. Perpetually shielded with coldness.
My name speaks the language of me. A tongue spoken only by my mouth. An incomprehensible language conquered by none other than I. Every scream, every sigh, and every word I once spoke, concealed in my name. Altering my name would change me. That is why, merely Alondra will do.