I was trying to keep quiet, but something deep down forced me to ask, “Ma, but why when the church people and Peace Corps from America come here, they don’t take Grebo names?”

That set Ma off. She ran around the bed like a vexed billy goat trying to butt  something and slapped my face hard. Pow! I felt it in my ears before my face started burning.  My eyes dropped to look at the tiles again, but her toes, painted fresh red, sticking out of her sandals, were in the way. I felt her breathing and still saw the red through the water in my eyes. Pa stood up from the bed, but kept his distance.

“Look you-boy,” Ma was pointing her finger at my head and talking real slow as if she wanted the words to soak into my head like water into farina, “this is not a joke.  We’re not playing here. We’re trying to help you and instead of thanking us you’re asking stupid, stupid questions?” She pushed my head back. “I’m not wasting any more time on this foolishness. From today your name is Bernard Cooper—you hear me? If you don’t like it, then pack your one or two things and get the hell out.  If you don’t want help, that’s your business but you won’t be living in this house!  What’s wrong with this country ass?” Ma Linda was looking at Pa but pointing at me when she said the last part.

“Sorry Ma,” my voice shook. “Didn’t mean to be frisky; I want the help.  Bernard is my name, Bernard Cooper. Please let me stay. I beg you.” They had been good to me; the house work was easy though their children didn’t do any of it. I was in school. And I needed that to be clever like Teacher Raymond. How could I not take what Ma and Pa were giving?

Ma blew air as though she had been carrying a heavy load on her head, then walked out of the room. Pa came and put his hand on my shoulders. Papa had done the same thing when he told me that I was old enough to help on the farm. “Sorry it came to this son,” he began, “you’re young, so you don’t know any better. When you get older, you’ll see what we’re talking about; you’ll see the benefit, the good side to this.” I wanted to look at Pa, but could not. “Don’t worry,” Pa said, “at least Linda heard you apologize before she left. I’ll talk to her after she calms down. Things will be ok.”

Pa cleared his throat, “I know how you feel son. I used to think the same way.  Years ago when Ernest Cooper, the former superintendent of Grand Bassa County, offered me his name I was reluctant. Er, that means I held back. I thought that I should hold onto my Bassa name, Gardiah, but Edward Cooper worked better for me, made life easier. Funny thing, Gardiah means ‘new man’ and that’s exactly what I am.” Pa Edward’s eyes were happy and proud the way Mama’s were each time Teacher told her I was the top student in class. The first time I didn’t think she understood what it meant until I saw the look in her eyes.

I didn’t even know Pa was Bassa. All along I thought his people were some of those who came from America to start Liberia as our history book said; the same people my great, great Grand fought against. I was looking at Pa from head to toe trying to get used to the fact that he was not Congo.

“Anyway, it’ll be good for you son. You can do everything I did and more.  It’s called success,” Pa was heading to the bathroom. I was still standing in the same spot I had been in since coming into their room. He stopped in front of the door and said, “Believe me, when people back in your little village hear about your new name they’ll be jealous because they’ll know you’re making progress.” He stepped into the bathroom; I stepped out of the room.