A rose by any other name, right? Well, that wasn't quite the case for Marge who grew up on the Mexican border praying for an Irish name of her own.

I have never liked my name,  not ever. I was not only named after my mother’s younger sister, Margaret Chouinard but it was in Spanish! So what?, you might ask.

Well, it might not matter except that my mother was from Scotland and my maternal grandmother from Ireland. However, my American Dad was originally from Mexico and the parents were still in love then, so my mom named me, their second daughter, the Spanish version of Margaret. Aunt Margaret was crabbit—not my favorite aunt. And why couldn’t I have received a prettier version of Margaret, such as Mairead or Peggy?

We lived in an American city that bordered Mexico’s north. Because of that, the name Margarita combined with my Spanish surname of Hernandez served to set me firmly in an ethnic group that was looked down on. I had yet to be taught what I have since learned, that we are all alike under our skin and we all bleed the same.

I brooded, ‘Why did I have to be in an ethnic group? Why couldn’t I just be ME?’

My mother used to say that I, her dreamy child, was born in the wrong century and I was away with the fairies. People have made assumptions about me based on my name and looks. I am a unique combination of both my parents’ and their parents, and back.

This article was submitted to the IrishCentral contributors network by a member of the global Irish community. To become an IrishCentral contributor click here.