As a child, I learned to mangle my last name: Guerrero. Spanish for warrior. A mouthquake of a name, it mobilizes the tongue's full range — from its genesis near the gullet to the rolled "rr," a windstorm by the teeth. My teachers compressed its three syllables to two, without vibration: "greh-roh."
Groan instead of battle cry.
I didn't mind. Like most girls in the 1990s, I was cultured to self-constrict. The early Disney Princesses, my introduction to American feminine ideals, were dainty and demure. My gale-force name and nature, I understood, needed taming. And like many children whose parents came from places denigrated as "Third World," I studied U.S. films for cues on fitting in. I identified with the mermaid Ariel, willing to surrender her voice to be "part of that world."
