Joval. “Joval, like my parents Joel and Valerie.”
Five letters, two syllables.
“Is it Jo-vol?” I’m asked. “No, I respond,” with a smile. “It’s Joval, like my parents Jo from Joel and Val from Valerie.”
I’ve been introducing myself with this little diddy for well over 20 years. Over the years it’s been shortened. “Hey! My name is Joval, as in my parents, Joel and Valerie.”
Inevitably, like the chime of the church bells as a new hour strikes, I’m met with any of the following: Oooooh! That’s so cool! I haven’t heard that before! That’s so beautiful! That’s so unique! Your parents are so creative! Is it French? It sounds like a perfume!
Even after my naming story and a friendly correction or few, when my name is returned to me incorrectly, the painful mispronunciation is worse than nails on the chalkboard. It’s like when you grind your teeth and it reverberates in your bones.
Joval. Five letters. Two syllables. Jo- val.
But they who hate me– not me personally but what I represent– either don’t call my name with the richness it’s due because it’s “too difficult” and they insist on returning “J-oval” to me.
There’s misunderstanding. And then there’s this. Contempt. Disdain. Bias. Discrimination. Hatred rolls off their lips as they insist on mispronouncing my name.
And like the unfortunate grinding of my teeth, when I move my teeth just so, I can feel the disdain in the shadow of my marrow. In my DNA. This is visceral. This is deep. This is other worldly. This was known by my mother and her mama and her mommy before her.
I used to wish my parents spelled my name J-o-e-v-a-l. I used to wish that because perhaps people– White people– would pronounce it correctly. Right. Well.
But no. It’s not because they see Joval written on paper that they get it wrong. It’s because they choose not to hear me or see me or want to know me. They don’t think I’m worthy of being known.
You mean to tell me you can correctly pronounce Arnold Schwarzenegger, an old Austrian man you’ve never met and likely won’t ever, but the Black woman who stands before you, you refuse to let the richness of those five letters and only two syllables land softly on your tongue?
Oh please.
My parents named me perfectly well. I am perfectly well. The moment has passed and no longer do I wish they spelled it differently.
I was wrong. I am worthy of being known. Always have been. And always will be.
You, however, are not worthy of knowing me.
