What I was robbed of

I had my name changed when I was 13.

Before that, I carried the name of my birth mother—
a strong, selfless woman
who made hard choices so I could have a better life.

Back then, I didn’t think much about my name.
I was a kid.
How could I?
It was just me. That’s all it was.

Then I met boys.
All kinds of boys.
Some tall.
Some short.
Some kind.
Some not at all.

It started when I was five.
The teasing.
Over something so stupid.
They were just past that preteen stage
where they think they know everything
but don’t know anything at all.

I was small. Quiet.
Easy to scare.
So I made them bigger than they were.

There’s your target.

My name happened to be the same as a kids’ TV show.

There’s your bullet.

And there I was
a shy, young girl, easy to shape, easy to hurt.

Take your fucking shot.
Again.
And again.

Until I cried.
And cried.
Until I got too scared to cry at all.

I went home hating the way my parents said my name
with warmth and love,
because hours earlier
those boys said it the same way
just louder, meaner, and cruel.

I hated my family.
I hated a TV show I never even liked.
I hated my parents for keeping my name.
I hated myself for feeling that way.

Crying.
And more crying.

So much that in 20xx,
my parents gave me a new name.

I went from two middle names to one.
I kept my first middle name—
another gift from my birth mother.
Even that name was changed,
Americanized when I was adopted.
Another piece altered by the world I was brought into.

After that, it stopped.
No teasing.
No tears.
Just a safe, average, Americanized name.

I let them take my name from me.

I let immature boys bully me into hating
my identity,
my name,
my face,
everything.

I let them rob me.
Of me.

Now no one thinks twice about my name.
It’s plain.
Forgettable.
Exactly what I wanted.

So why am I saying this now?

Because something was taken from me.
And even though I allowed it,
I’m rebuilding myself anyway.

From scratch.
On my own terms.

That name was a stepping stone for me.
I don’t want it back.
I made my choice the moment I could,
and I stuck with it.

My “new” name became my identity
one I’m still learning,
but one I’m comfortable in,
and even proud of at times.

You can’t rob me this time.
And I’ll be damned if you try to do it to someone else.