My Name

I’ve heard it whispered, shouted, moaned. It has meant “I want you”, “I need you”, and “I love you”. It cuts and hurts and soothes and comforts. It can be used against me. My mother once called my name in a Tunisian marketplace, threw open my gates, set up trade routes with merchants plying their dusty wares. Giving out my name is giving out a tool. A way in.

In your hands, in your mouth, on your lips, my name can become what you want it to be. My name is yours in a way that it’ll never be mine. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a name at all. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t need one. And there’d have been no one to remark that I had such a big name for such a small girl, and no wonder I was so solemn. There’d be no one to drawl that I have a name like a French queen, and should be treated like one.

I want to wear my name like a killer pair of heels, the kind not everyone can pull off. I want to carry “Gabrielle” like a secret weapon to be unleashed when the moment is right. I want it to set me apart. I want it to be mine.