"Hey, Tony!" one of the boys called out to the new kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood. But the new kid didn't respond immediately; in fact, he just stared at the caller as though he hadn't heard. "Hey, Tony, what's the matter? Are you deaf?" the first boy called, walking closer to the new kid on the block. He wasn't trying to be a smart aleck, but was hoping to be casual in trying to become better acquainted with the new boy. "My name is Antonio," the new boy responded firmly but without any hostility. "Well, so what? Antonio, schmonio, what's the difference?" the first lad replied with a shrug.

Antonio and his family, who were Hispanic, had moved into the neighborhood from the Rio Grande Valley. Prior to living there they had lived across the border in Mexico. But though they were now U.S. citizens, they held firmly to some of the customs of their Mexican heritage. For Antonio's family, one of these customs was the importance of names. Antonio started to explain, "I was named after my grandfather, and he was named after St. Anthony, who was a great saint in the church." "So ..." responded the boy, who didn't get the point of it all. Antonio was patient in his response, "So, my grandfather was a very wonderful man. He lived with us for many years and taught us many good things. He died last year, and I try to keep his memory strong by remembering that my name, Antonio, is the same as his name." But the questioner wasn't satisfied yet. "But in this neighborhood we all have nicknames. They call me Joe, and my real name is Joseph. And some of the guys have nicknames that don't even sound like their real names." Antonio shrugged and said, "That's fine if you want to do things that way, but I like my real name to be used." "But Antonio ... Antonio ... it sounds so stiff. Why can't we just call you Tony?" the neighborhood veteran insisted.

Antonio didn't want to antagonize the other boy, nor spoil his own chances for getting acquainted with others in the neighborhood. "I don't like a nickname for myself," he said with some hesitation. "It doesn't have the same meaning for me." "What does Antonio mean for you?" the other asked. Antonio paused before he answered. "I guess ..." he looked for the right words to help his neighbor understand his feelings. "I guess it reminds me of someone, someone who was very close to me and who meant a lot to our family. I'll always remember my grandfather as Antonio." The other boy shook his head in a bit of bewilderment, but then extended his hand and said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, Antonio."