To Have a Name

Jade Dream Edwards-Figueroa. It's 24 letters, 25 characters that define who I am. Without a name I am simply just someone. I could be anyone. But my name makes me unique.Not in the way that my fingerprints may, but in a way that’s authentic to my personality. To love my name is to love who I am, my story and the story of those who came before me.  

Though with age and time I’ve grown to love the name my mother chose, and the surnames given to me by both my parents, this was not always the case.  

I grew up in a small more suburban area of The Bronx called Woodlawn. Woodlawn is known for its Irish culture so growing up only half Irish made me feel like an outsider. To be a child of color in an area filled with white people is a culture shock for those around you. I grew up with no one ever being able to pronounce my last name. Aname given to me by my father and his before him was subject to ridicule for its pronunciation.  

I grew up embarrassed of being a Figueroa  because having that name made me feel like I wasn’t normal, whatever normal may be.  

As I went on through middle school, comments about my name became matched with some regarding my appearance. 

They’d say “I wish my hair looked like yours” or “I wish I had your skin color. It's the perfect mix of white and brown.” 

These comments made me feel out of place. In this Irish neighborhood my Irish descent was being disregarded by the fact that I am also Puerto Rican. Instead of being able to embrace both sides of me I was put into a box to fit one.  

When I got older and attended high school, I attended a predominantly Hispanic school in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. At this school I finally felt like I would fit in, having been treated differently given my Hispanic background I was thrilled to be in a place I could belong. 

But of course, that didn’t happen. 

High school is a time where many people start growing into their identities, but for me it was just another opportunity to be lost in my own. Edwards, the name that no one ever batted an eye at, was finally the topic of discussion.  

Suddenly I was being asked  if I was Italian and being referred to as the “white one” in my friend group. I had friends who were paler than me, but the biggest difference between us was they were fully Hispanic. Not two halves of something that could never be whole. 

At this point in my life, I was begging for an ounce of understanding. Anything to make me feel like being a part of two different cultures would make me feel lucky. Not cursed.

I began asking more about my family trees on both sides, putting in the work to learn more about my cultures rather than letting one define me. I slowly started to see myself as Jade Edwards-Figueroa, not just Jade Edwards or Jade Figueroa. I finally began to see myself as me.  

Now this growth is still happening and no change happens overnight. There are still times where I can be sensitive to comments on my race or ethnicity. But all in all, I am happy to be finding myself and learning to love me as one whole person, not two empty halves. 

Picture by Tasha Kamrowski