By Juana Martinez-Neal
A girl who's sure her name is far too long learns the story living inside every piece of it.
Alma Sofia Esperanza José Pura Candela has six names, and she's certain that's too many, they don't even fit on one line. So her father sits her down and tells her where each one came from. Sofia loved books and flowers. Esperanza longed to travel and never got to. José was the artist. Pura watched over the family through the spirits of those who'd gone before. Candela stood up and spoke out for what was right. One by one, Alma meets a person she carries inside her name, and by the end she understands, her name is a whole story, and the first name, Alma, is hers alone to fill.
It turns a child's name into a family tree they can hold in their hands, and it gives every listener a way to see themselves as the newest link in a long chain. For a Latino child it's a warm, specific mirror, but the idea, that you're named for people who loved and hoped and fought before you, belongs to every family. And it ends by handing the child the pen, your name is yours to make mean something, which is exactly the note an identity unit wants to end on.