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Monica

“I’d name my son Ezekiel,” announces Duke.

“Ezekiel?” says Rudy.

“E-za-kayl,” he repeats with relish. “Ezekayl Dianté Quinnon.”

“I know you didn’t just put my son’s name in yours!” objects Rudy. “I told you I’m a name my son Kwinnay.”

“How y’all gonna argue over names now?” grumbles Monica, but secretly she’s thinking the same things. She wants daughters, herself, and they’ll have new and beautiful names, original poetry just for them. No more Monicas, no more Dukes. Their children will all be called by music, names you could dance to, names you could step to: Dionna, B’Lynn, Alonsé Kitala Quinnon.

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