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An Essay by Onnesha Roychoudhuri | Kenyon Review Online

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Aw-nay-shuh: the jaw hinging open, letting loose the tongue that flicks across the top of the palate, before retreating behind the teeth to nestle into its postalveolar hush. Aw. Nay. Shuh. Or, rather, Onnesha, in its proper spelling. It wasn’t until I was thirty that I thought to give restaurants a simpler name to hold a reservation. I still pause and feel guilty every time I say, “Anna.” Like somehow I’m trying to pass. I expect this person who doesn’t give a shit to look at me, say, “There’s no way your name is Anna.” During a brief phase when I was six or seven, I requested that my family refer to me as Elizabeth. My mother asked me didn’t I like my own name, which was much more unique and beautiful? It was a solid parenting gesture, though confusing as it was coming from a woman named Pamela with long, straight, blondish brown locks and blue eyes. There was power in a name, and I figured if mine were Elizabeth, maybe the blue eyes and blonde hair would follow. I would look more li

Where I’m Writing From By Onnesha Roychoudhuri Toggle Table of Contents Winter 2016 Vol. No. Poetry Matt Hart Catching Light Vladislav Khodasevich translated by Alex Cigale The Ape Dong Li north of the earth (an excerpt) Kate Middleton Watching Science Fiction Lauren Goodwin Slaughter Syringe Training, Home Visit Fiction Ethan Chatagnier The Law of Threes Terry Eicher The Sick Nurse Catherine Gammon In Absence Kim Henderson Night Window Valya Dudycz Lupescu Seven David Rutschman The Devil’s New Red Axe; The Savannah Sabrina Wise Dear Rabbi Clearman Essay Andrew Bomback What Do You Do to

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