I am the first child my mother cradled in her arms and loved unconditionally; the first to accept the warmth of her bosom, and depended on it for sustenance; the only creature that would endlessly need her. I wouldn’t be the last child, but I was the first living child. For a woman of almost forty that is a big deal. And being born three months premature, with all odds against, me she named me in order to give thanks to the God that kept me alive.

I am my mother’s struggle to recreate life in her image. So when people pronounce my name in an off wall sort of way, or disregard because of its length, I get offended for her. It’s not “wow your whole name is a sentence long!” not, "Oh geez, where did you come from?” not “I heard about the situation over there.” My name is a reflection of my mother’s struggle and the wonderful life she was able to bring into this world, a disregard for my name is disregard for that miracle.

My name is Xxxxxxxxx—it means “God is my Satisfaction.”