Bite Me

I was given my name from a Buddhist book, chosen with care, intention, and a certain reverence. It was meant to carry meaning, not convenience. I have worn it like a good wool shawl my whole life. Warm. Protective. Slightly impractical in the summer.

The trouble is, my name asks for patience. It leans into the mouth in a way Western tongues are not always prepared for. It is not difficult, exactly. It just refuses to be rushed.

Terry tried. He really did. Terry was wonderful with names. English names, Spanish names, even Indian tribal languages bent politely around his tongue. My name, though, would land beautifully once, and then vanish from his mind like a bird startled out of a tree. He would look at me, smiling, clearly holding a thought, and then stall.

I learned to shorten my name for him. For his family. For my American friends. I sanded it down, syllable by syllable, until it was manageable. It was still tricky. Names, like spices, reveal themselves differently depending on who is tasting.

One afternoon in Tucson, Terry took his colleagues and me to a Jordanian restaurant. The kind with soft light and generous plates. I asked for something spicy. They brought a chili paste. It was pleasant. Friendly. I thanked them and asked, gently, if they had anything hotter.

That question caused a pause. A quiet conference. Then the waiter returned with a small jar, red and rusty, like it had lived a long life on a high shelf. It resisted being opened. Several hands were involved.

I was delighted.

I took a generous spoonful. It was flavorful. Deep. Not especially hot. I finished my meal politely. When I looked up, I realized we had an audience. Waiters. Diners. Curious faces gathered in a loose circle, as if I were attempting something dangerous or unwise.

Someone asked if it was hot enough.

I told the truth, carefully, "Not spicy enough, but very tasty."

A silence followed. A few faces paled.

Then Terry’s voice rose, bright with relief and triumph. "Pepper! Her name is Pepper."

Laughter broke out like rain after heat. Everyone relaxed. The moment shifted. I became a character instead of a critic. A name had finally caught up with me.

That is how I became Pepper.

I would happily live that day again.
The food.
The warmth.
Terry saying my name with certainty at last.
And whatever he was about to tell me next.