The name my parents was supposed to give me was Yusuf,
all soft sounds, nothing from the throat. Easy enough
to say, you-suf, you-suf, you-you-you, you would've been mine,
ya-wow-seen-fah, wow-wow-wow, ya-ya-ya wouldn't believe
the things I've seen-seen-seen. I've been reading God's favored
language for eleven years and I'm still not sure how to
pronounce my real surname. For the masquerade of
the internet and the hopes of unlikely publishing, I've
given myself Al-Jamil at my last name, one of the only positive
adjectives I remembered from eight months of Arabic
classes. Al-Jamil, alif-laam-jim-ya-laam, ya-ya-ya would
be disappointed to hear that there aren't many puns
to make from this one. Sorry. I don't know what sorry
is in Arabic. I don't know many things in Arabic. But
show me the script with diacritical marks and I'll
read it all out dutifully — alif fatha 'ahh', alif kasra
'eee', alif dummah 'ooo', 'ahh, eee, ooo', oooh,
guess who couldn't remember the sounds while
writingthis out? I used to go by traditional English name
online. I don't remember why. I used to go by a lot
of names online, but ever an Arabic one until I felt
my ancestor's gazes pinned on my back, radiating
disgrace, so I chose the name that my parents never
gave me and made it mine. It was always mine. Hopefully. But
I don't think anything in Arabic will ever belong to me
in anything more than name, though I'll be damned if
I don't try to take more. Literally damned. You're
supposed to speak Arabic in heaven. You-you-you
can laugh. It's okay. Ana bekhayr. I hope that's
the right phrase. None of these translation websites
will give me a straight answer.