My grandmother’s name was changed. She was born in 1915, the first child of Annie Garcia Costa Dutra, 19, and Manuel Jasper Dutra, 26. They named her Dolores and she cried and cried and cried.
The Doctor came to the house, as they did in those days. “What did you name this child?” he asked. “Dolores,” they said.
“Dolores means sorrow. Dolores means tears. You must change her name,” he said. She was hours old.
She became Barbara Cecilia. I have the birth certificate with the flowery cursive writing – “Dolores” is crossed out and “Barbara Cecilia” penned in. She had not yet grown into, around, and full of the name Dolores. And though the early change did not keep her from crying, it is Barbara she became.
As a child, I found this story compelling because I knew grown-ups to act according to logic and evidence. This story pointed to superstition and magical thinking – to change a name was severe, to change a name was desperation, to change a name was something I’d never heard of.
Names have power. They give us a sense of place, of belonging, of definition. They anchor us. They carry history. Once they’ve lived with us, once they stick, they have weight and power, as well they should.
Names are important.
The NorthsideAztlanCommunity Center is finally, after many many years, going to get a major face-lift. And, suddenly, several people who have probably never noticed it before are hankering to change its name. The City Council, last Tuesday, voted to keep the name and more on. They said they had more vital and less divisive issues to face.
It bothers me that the question was brought up at all.
The people pushing for the name change were using the political climate of our country regarding immigration to claim the word Aztlan is somehow bad. But, most importantly, they weren’t considering the damage they were doing to the community. I listened as a young student leader from PoudreHigh School said, “I’ve been coming here since I was six. This is a second home. Why would they want to take our name away?”
I’m guessing, hoping, imaging that “they” is only a very few people and that most of this town is more respectful.
You can make any word bad – even the most holy and gentle. Just try hurtling the word “God” with a scrunched face, clenched fists and spittle-spray and you’ll see what I mean.
Aztlan is not a holy name, or a hell-filled idea, or a symbol to be feared. NorthsideAztlanCommunity Center has been around for almost thirty years.
The city council and the Division of Parks and Recreation, way back then, wanted public input on the name. They took a door-to-door survey, held meetings, voted. Process happened. They chose a name.
Unlike my grandmother with fretful parents and a name hours old, the NorthsideAztlanCommunity Center is long established, long labeled, and not in need of superstitious fixing of any sort. The Center already is. It draws generations of loyal residents – all colors and all cultures – to its doors day in and day out, year in and year out.
For many Fort Collins residents, the NorthsideAztlanCommunity Center is a second home. It is basketball and arts and crafts and gatherings. It is circles of old women and old men leaning close to talk each week. It is after-school programs and teenagers with something to do. It is mothers and fathers and uncles and neighbors. It is food. It is the playground with the merry-go-round rocking horse. It is soccer and computer classes and pow-wows open to all.
To strip a place of its name after nearly thirty years is not the same as following the advice of a superstitious doctor hours after a birth. No. It is something altogether different, altogether darker.
I’m glad the issue has been put to rest, though I hope the education can now begin. This place already is – it needs a face-lift, new bricks, continued community support. It does not need to have anything taken away or taken over – in name or in spirit.
Northside Aztlan Community Center – it already means second home. That’s all. Visit. Everyone’s welcome.
