Fanny Linguistics: Nickole

What people don’t know about my name
is that my grandmother gave me that “k”
                       —my very own unexpected
consonant—
                       those two strong arms and two strong legs,
that broom-handle spine—
                       that letter about no one with a name
same as mine has.

A mis-
           spelling, really—
                      the same botched phonetics of all her
girls’ names,
           misspelled but fancy

as chandeliers—Latonna Lee, Candies La Rayne, Lesi Annett 
            —names that know never to drink
            lemon water from a silver fingerbowl

but names that can be bobbed with a “y”
            and cheerlead.

Now, she called me Koey, so don’t expect me to respond
to the first nasal tone of my name
            but the harsher           cough 

that follows, that typo tambourined
from the back of the throat. I’ll answer to cold & coal & coke, 
    sometimes 

            even hear that sound as a scoop of coco, something dry

from the tin, but warmed with a little sugar and milk, a name
    snowing
            while it’s safe inside.

Credit

Copyright © 2015 by Nickole Brown. Used with permission of the author.

About this Poem

“This piece is from my Fanny Linguistics series, a group of poems that explore the particular way my grandmother used (or mis-used, depending on who’s talking) language. You see, she was raised during a time when women weren’t necessarily taught how to read and write, so coupled with the specific way of speaking given to her in Western Kentucky, she had to make do. Now, my mother gave birth to me young (she was only sixteen), so it was up to my grandmother to fill out my birth certificate. The ‘k’ in my name has caused more folks to misspell my name than I can remember, but it’s mine. Now that I’ve had a lifetime with it, I often think of that strong, unnecessary consonant as a small mark Fanny made on me to help keep me upright and strong as the letter itself looks.
—Nickole Brown