Riti. 

As you read this poem in your mind, 

I wonder how you pronounced my name. 

Ree-tee? Ree-dee? 

Ree-thee. 

It meant wealth and protection,

until my name got lost in translation. 

Now it means nothing. 

It’s hard to imagine how someone can butcher just four letters, 

but I’ve learned to stop caring. 

“Ree…rih-tee?” 

That’s me. For the fifth time today, 

I’m forced to correct you. 

It’s alright, really. It’s not the first time.

I guess everyone makes mista-

but hold on, now. 

When was the last time I mispronounced

Emily, Jacob, or Abigail? 

Catherine, Benjamin, Alexander. 

My name is half the letters but ten times the difficulty?

You knows their names by heart, 

as if it's a solemn oath you’ve been reciting since you were born. 

One nation, under God, indivisible

with liberty and justice for them?

No, my name doesn’t come from the American flag; 

it doesn’t salute the stars and the stripes. 

My name comes from the ground you walk on. 

The earth, the dirt, the soil. 

It is essential for life, yet grows without recognition. 

How long have I wished for a name like Catherine?

I’ve been taught my name is dirty, poor, and unwanted. 

But my name signifies power. 

For when you become worthy of saying it, 

the whole world knows exactly who you are talking about,

And your words might just put the skin on my bones. 

Riti. 

Now tell me how you pronounced it.