Fanny Linguistics: Nickole   Nickole Brown

What people don’t know about my name is that my grandmother gave me that “k”                            —my very own unexpected consonant—                             those two strong arms and two strong legs, that broom-handle spine—                             that letter about no one with a name same as mine has. A mis-              spelling, really—                           the same botched phonetics of all her girls’ names,             misspelled but fancy as chandeliers—Latonna Lee, Candies La Rayne, Lesi Annett                —names that know never to drink               lemon water from a silver fingerbowl but names that can be bobbed with a “y”                and cheerlead. Now, she called me Koey, so don’t expect me to respond to the first nasal tone of my name               but the harsher            cough  that follows, that typo tambourined from the back of the throat. I’ll answer to cold & coal & coke,                           sometimes               even hear that sound as a scoop of coco, something dry from the tin, but warmed with a little sugar and milk, a name snowing               while it’s safe inside.   About This Poem   “This piece is from my Fanny Linguistics series, a group of poems that explore the particular way my grandmother used (or mis-used, depending on who’s talking) language. You see, she was raised during a time when women weren’t necessarily taught how to read and write, so coupled with the specific way of speaking given to her in Western Kentucky, she had to make do. Now, my mother gave birth to me young (she was only sixteen), so it was up to my grandmother to fill out my birth certificate. The ‘k’ in my name has caused more folks to misspell my name than I can remember, but it’s mine. Now that I’ve had a lifetime with it, I often think of that strong, unnecessary consonant as a small mark Fanny made on me to help keep me upright and strong as the letter itself looks. —Nickole Brow