mi nombre es olivia. no one but god gave me that name. when i died, my husband went to the back yard and sat staring at the sky for three days, praying for rain. it came too. i made sure of it. he said looking at the storming skies was like looking into my own eyes. he said my eyes were just as likely to kill him as lightning. he told me this on our wedding day. tus ojos me matan, he said. it was the second time we had met. we are from mexico. the two of us living under the confusion and the struggle that she can bring. she can be so kind, and so furious, she is a greater storm than my eyes could ever hope to be. my husband and i both worshipped her though, which is why we left her. not to die under the hands of whom was in power, but with promises of return, with kisses and gifts and of course, more promises. she did not let us go without a fight, a lasting impression meant to sting and to communicate we were never to leave her angry again. My three year old in my arms, i prayed to god that we never would. but those were the days in which i was strong, and happy. my body was still bursting with life and ready to bear two more children. my children of opportunity i called them. born in los estados unidos, they were the ones who wanted mexico the most. they were special to me in every way, but neither could be to me what my first born son was. like my name, god gave him his name as well. this i will not tell you yet, but i will confide that for my second and third children, god was silent, no longer demanding a name in his taciturn way. i named them myself and i could only pray that if god had stopped listening, then maybe he could find a small second to let me know i had chosen the correct ones. but he never sent a sign, though mi madre assured me that he was everywhere, all the time. so frustrated: i could get so frustrated when she said this. but that is something else.
Olivia comes from olives, as in the olive tree: a symbol of peace, dignity, and fruitfulness. when my mother was in labor with me, she was on a small cot, in the middle of a war. there were black curtains on the windows so no one would be able to see the candles lit inside, flickering shadows around the tiny room. she swore that for most of the labor she was delirious, not remembering anything later on and swearing she was in conference with He himself. just as her neighbor was preparing another vat of hot water with fresh towels, in preparation for catching me as i came gushing out in all my glory, she heard a tiny cry. coming quickly back into the room she saw my mother and me, clean and soft, folded among heaps of sweat drenched sheets, happily cooing to one another. the story goes that she almost fainted from disbelief, but more importantly she knew my name before it ever left my mother's lips. she says it was hanging in the air like a thick cloud of fog, scented with honey and rain. she whispered it as she sat on the ground by my mother's side and began to pray. at the same moment, the name was uttered from my mother's mouth, the last 'a' lingering for a second longer before it floated into the air like an irridescent bubble and bursted. and so, i was named simultaneously by the two women, but firstly by god.