I’m named after my grandfathers: Johann and Juan. My name is Johanna. Throughout my life, I’ve met many Johannas. At my university alone, I know nearly a dozen. It’s led to funny and to confusing situations, but it’s always been something to connect over. On their own, my names are nothing to brag about: Johanna. Gabriela. Hernández. Schäfer. Johanna and Schäfer are common names in Germany, Gabriela and Hernández are typical Peruvian names. Only together are they special. Only together are they me. But – had I been born 50 minutes earlier, my name might have been Paula (find out why at the end of the poem).
Goal!
Sunday,
May 20, 2001,
St. Pauli wins the match
right before the end.
My father,
not pregnant,
sits on the couch
and watches the game.
My mother,
highly pregnant,
lies in the bathtub,
relaxing.
We went to the hospital that day because my mother thought I’m on my way.
The doctor,
not pregnant,
not nice,
sends us back home,
not the time yet.
Later, same day, at night, the contractions start again. I want to meet the world. We drive to the hospital in a taxi.
My aunt,
not pregnant,
in front of our home,
arrives too late.
The nurse,
not pregnant,
joyfully, yells
“I can see black hair. It is ‘this’ long”
motions an inch between thumb and index finger.
My mother,
squeezes,
my father’s hand,
bites,
my father’s hand,
in pain.
And then, I finally am out in this world. I finally meet the world, for the first time.
It’s 50 minutes past midnight on May 21, 2001. They call me Johanna. 50 minutes earlier, on May 20, my name might have been Paula. Paula because St. Pauli won the game on May 20. Who would Paula have been?
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