My Name is Racist

Kevin Kerry
Nov 2 · 3 min read

By Kevin Kristopher Kerry

My dad got what he wanted — a reaction.

My mom said it was unintended, the coincidence of my initials equalling KKK.

She said she hadn’t thought about it at all until the African American nurse at the Ypsilanti hospital where I was born went to attach my newborn ID bracelet to my wrist and saw the look on her face.

I hadn’t really ever thought about it either, until ninth grade biology class. I was sitting at my desk in the third row, the first day of school. The teacher called out my name from behind the black topped science counter, where he sat casually on a tall stool, clip board in his hand. “Kevin Kerry” I raised my hand. “Here.” He acknowledged me with a small smile, marked me down and continued with the other names. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

A voice from behind me said “Hey.” I turned around.

“Kevin Kerry? Like, KK?” He wanted to know.

I looked at him. He had blue eyes. Soft brown freckles on fair skin. These years later, I don’t remember his name. At the time, he seemed like a cool enough kid, but I didn’t know what kind. I couldn’t place his style. He wore a baseball cap, an open satin jersey jacket and a thin gold chain around his neck that laid softly in a squiggle line stuck to the top of his comfortable navy blue T-shirt. Soft brown mustache hairs visible above his thin red lips. I knew he wasn’t a freshmen because he wasn’t at any of the orientations. None of the freshmen I knew had facial hair yet either. I was just putting together that Sophomores were in the class too.

I felt surprised my name was something to be noticed. What was this about?

“Yes” I said, faking confidence.

He quickly mocked, “So what’s your middle name?” his eyes wider now.

I answered “Kristopher,” earnestly.

He laughed, “With a “K”?”

“Yes.”

He burst out laughing and called to his friend to the back left of the room, as he pointed at me. “No way! Hey! This guys initials are KKK!” and more laughter.

I didn’t know what to do other than roll my eyes and turn back around and hope no one else would make a big deal out of it. Since I was facing forward and trying to ignore whatever they were saying I don’t know how anyone else reacted. I was mortified and my ability to pay attention to them limited.

I asked my mom after that about my name. My dad wasn’t really around much. She downplayed it as an odd coincidence. Just one of those things. They didn’t mean to name me with those initials, on purpose. Of course not! She explained she and my dad loved and agreed on the name Kevin and that my middle name was in honor of my dad’s best friend, a half Native American guy named Kristopher, who I met once when I was eleven. And my last name was a given. Kerry.

To me, it seemed like a stretch, to give me a middle name of someone that didn’t have a roll in my life at all. We have so many other family members. My dad is the third oldest of nine. My mom the youngest of five. And I mean, I never even heard any stories about fond memories with that friend or words shared about the significance of the bond. I smelled some bullshit.

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