On the first day of school, teachers would call roll, breezing through names until they got to mine. Instead of even attempting my first name—Xiomara—they’d skip to the last name: Rivera. It felt more “accessible,” more manageable for them. Years later, when Jane the Virgin premiered and featured not only a Xiomara but also an Alba (my mom’s name!), I was shocked. I had never (in the States) seen either name “out in the wild.” And if I hadn’t, I knew my English-speaking peers definitely hadn’t.

So, somewhere around early elementary school, I started going by Xixi (pronounced See-See). We moved around a lot—I was a military brat—and I learned quickly that blending in made things easier. Introducing myself as Xiomara often led to long pauses, confused stares, and butchered attempts. But Xixi? That brought instant relief. I’d say, “You can just call me Xixi,” and watch their shoulders drop. And honestly? I felt relieved too.

1. I just wanted to be included. The harder your name is to pronounce, the more people hesitate to say it—and sometimes, to invite you in.
2. The more time I spent outside Puerto Rico, the more “Xiomara” felt distant from my lived experience—where Spanish was mostly spoken at home and rarely in public.
3. If you don’t give yourself a nickname, someone else will. And usually, it’s… not great. (“I’ll just call you X,” they’d say. I’d smile through it, but inside I was screaming, “You’re not even trying!”)

Giving myself a nickname gave me a sense of control. It helped me feel included.

But—and here’s the twist—that same nickname excluded me in Puerto Rico. On the island, nobody blinked at “Xiomara.” In fact, it was a connection—a marker of culture and language. There, I went by Xiomy, a warm, a family nickname that connected me to my Spanish-speaking self. When my parents, well-trained in my stateside preference, called me “Xixi” in public on the island, I cringed. It felt like it outed me as an outsider. Worse: it signaled (in my own mind) that maybe I didn’t belong.

Years later, when I became a Spanish teacher, I started dabbling with using my full name again—partly for credibility, partly for pride. But I still hesitated depending on the audience. It wasn’t until I started my doctorate that things truly shifted. I began learning more deeply about language and identity—how education systems can either affirm diverse perspectives or demand assimilation. I started asking myself:
Why am I using this name? For me, or for others?

It was then that I made the decision to reclaim my name.
Not just as a pronunciation, but as a part of my identity. I was reconnecting with my Puerto Rican heritage, especially as part of the diaspora. “Xiomara” wasn’t just a name—it was an identity marker of my language and my culture. I wanted people to know I was a Spanish speaker. That I was proud of it. And that I would take up linguistic space.

(📛Xiomara,📍Nosara Costa Rica, 📷: Fernando Samalot)

I had the benefit of starting a new job that summer, which gave me a clean slate. I began introducing myself as Xiomara again and—here’s the hard part—holding people accountable for saying it (or at least trying!). Yes, there were awkward moments. Yes, I sat through a few painful “See-oh-mah-rah” attempts. But I also started hearing people say my name with care. With effort. And that was validating. That was powerful.

These days, I mostly go by Xiomara.
But I still offer “Xixi” occasionally—not from a place of shrinking, but from a place of connection. Xixi now holds nostalgia, a nod to a past version of myself trying to find her place. It no longer feels like I’m minimizing my Latina identity. It feels like an embrace of all my identities, across time and geography.

So here’s your reminder: your name is yours to claim, to share, and to love—in any language, in any form.

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🤟🏼Dr. Xiomara Rivera Pagán