My name is borrowed from familial ghosts, women that I have never met and whom I know little about. I was named after the woman who died days before I was born, my great-grandmother, my parents hoping I would be a reincarnation of her. I fear they are disappointed. I am not a traditional woman, a timid woman, a woman with numerous children and grandchildren that carry her memory on through me.
As a child, my name was a special gift. However, as the years went by, I grew bored of it. My first, middle, last names are all recycled, yanked off of gravestones before being bestowed upon me. The unoriginality sometimes stings, especially in a building where the mere mention of it will turn 5, 6 heads, but I remind myself I must carry this burden for the rest of my life.
My name is a Hebrew name, which masks my rich Dutch heritage. The biblical meaning behind it feels fake when bestowed upon me, for I unwittingly rebel against the religious relatives who look down upon my queerness, upon my disbelief in a white-bearded man. The mask is only lifted when other bestow other names on me...and even with those, I feel as though I must uphold some type of image.
There are endless nicknames - all so linked to and different from their mother. They are the children that put a dimple in my smile, coax a laugh from my lips, and help me forget my grandmother mask. I hope to find balance between the four, and eventually find a name that defines me better and makes me feel whole.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets from an Unknown
Short StoryWe all begin as Unknowns, born into this world without any set purpose or plan, thrust into this world with no concern as to whether we "want to" or not. The path to figuring it out is crushing, riddled with life choices, hormones, and circumstance...
