Rosa, Rosa

My Catholic name is Rosa.

I hated this name.

My mom gave it to me
because my birthday was near St. Rosa's feast day.

That was customary
in Catholic families at the time.

My family came from generations of devout Catholics,

descendants of early Korean Catholic martyrs.

Catholic is our blood.

My mom,
who struggled with her own faith,
forced me to go to church.

I didn't like church.

I felt bad.

The priest said I was bad.

I often snuck out during Mass.

When I snuck back,

the priest was preaching
about how we are sinners.

I felt guilty.

My grandfather gave his three sons to the priesthood.

My grandmother must be very disappointed in me.

But I didn't like the church.

I felt bad.

Kids picked on me.

Pokémon was popular.

Rosa was the mean girl in Pokémon.

I hated my name.

When I grew up,

I liked Rosa.

Not me.

The Pokémon Rosa.

She was bad.

She did all the bad things.

She didn't care.

She was free.

Probably she didn't go to the church.

She was bad.

I liked her.

That's the Rosa I know.

The Catholic Saint Rosa—

I don't know much about her.

It's okay.

The Rosa I know—

I like her.

I don't know
if I like my name now.

Rosa, Rosa.