Angie? Angelica? What gives, lady?

2 of 2

I’m a twin. The second one. So, I am the second of a set. To set the stage, it was 1973 and we were due to be born in early 1974, so my parents were planning on one child. There were no ultrasounds, and my mother, a small Panamanian women, thought she was having Rosemary’s Baby. (This is what she literally says. And yes, I do think this is hilarious. My mom is friggin’ funny as hell.) The pictures are insane of my mother’s distended giant belly and her very small 5’0” frame. How they didn’t suspect twins never made sense to me. But it wasn’t until two weeks before my birthday that the ob/gyn suggested an x-ray to figure out what was happening.

Twins. Holy crap.

Her friends and co-workers scrambled and threw them another baby shower and gave them the same exact gifts to double the trouble.

The other issue remained. What is the name? My father, a huge Rolling Stones fan, suggested Angie, as that song was one of his favorites at the moment. They also reasoned that my sister, who they were naming KellyAnn, represented the Irish part of our family and Angie could be the Spanish/Italian. (My mama’s grandfather was from Italy. [It was a stretch, let’s be honest.]) So my name is just Angie. Not Angela, as everyone assumed. Not Angelina or Angeline. Not Angelica. Just Angie.

As a young Capricorn, I wanted something longer, more adult. I used to practice writing my name with all the Angie names I knew—Angela. I really wasn’t fond of it. It didn’t feel like me. At age 19, I ran off to the desert to get married to my first love—Guillermo Francisco Raphael Jones. I was wild and impetus. So was he. I definitely met my match with Guillermo. We laughed every day, argued about politics, life, and philosophy, but in the end, as predicted by LITERALLY EVERY PERSON IN OUR LIFE, our marriage ended in a young divorce. Maybe we were just too young and impetus. We partied a lot to be honest. I was very into booze at the time, and he was into his own demons too. But Guillermo is still one of the most creative, interesting and funny people I know. I consider him one of my best friends. I adore his wife and kids, and through the years, we have managed to be big supports for one another. This is not the tragedy society wants it to be. I never regretted that part of my life.

One of the interesting things about moving from Pennsylvania to Tucson was being surrounded by other Latine people, particularly Mexicans. Though my mother is Panamanian, I grew up in mostly rural Pennsylvania hearing more Pennsylvania Dutch or German than Spanish in my community. I did spend time with my mama’s family and that was always the best, but they didn’t live near us per se. One sister out of 9 other siblings lived in the United States—the rest in Central America. I had always been only one of a few Latine kids in my school. In Tucson, being surrounded people that looked like me was revelatory and amazing. I could be just me. There were SO many mixed people—half white and half Native or Latine or Black. I felt like I fit in for the first time in my life. Within the first few months, I made great friends and was invited to stand for a Mexican friend at her wedding as a bridesmaid. In the brochure, my name was listed as Angelica Jones.

Angelica.

That name. ahn-heh-lee-kah. OMG. This was my name. It felt so right, like nothing else I had ever heard. It sang to me. It felt like me. A mix of my Latinx roots and my whiteness all mixed in there. Kenna is my maiden name, but Jones was my first husband’s last name, and he is Yaqui, Mexican and Black. I loved Jones. I felt like Citizen X. It was just a last name.

Angelica Jones.

I sent poetry and writing under the name Angelica Jones for many years, particularly while I lived on the border and people called me Angelica by default like they called me Angela back East.

When we divorced and I moved back to Pennsylvania, I tried Angelica, but no one bit. What? Why are you going by that? I was always just Angie. Which is fine. I do love Angie too. It wasn’t until 2015 when Pixie, one of my mentors, challenged us to find our Spirit name. What does Spirit call you? What is your name?

Everyone went into journey and had names that were mystical and beautiful representations of Pachamama’s gifts, like River or Raven or Luna or Wolf. And mine was just the same Angelica. The same as I had always called myself in my head.

Then it clicked. OMG. This is my Spirit Name. Angelica. The one the Angels talk to (truth). And Angelica, the beautiful, protective plant. My go-to essential oil for meditation work. It was native to the north, even though the pronunciation is distinctively Spanish to me. Just like me. I pronounce it ahn-heh-lee-kah. Angelica. Angelica Yingst, the name of my husband and partner in life. My boo. My big hunky husband.

And so, I talked to my mother, and she said, I love that name. It is beautiful. It does not bother me if you want to use it. So, slowly, I started changing some things, like social media, to my Spirit name Angelica. I love it. It feels most me. But honestly, I will answer to Angie. Ang. Angsty (nod to my brilliant sister for this nickname.) Anjo. Angelica. Yingst. Mama. Coach. or whatever else you want to call me by.