My name is Danielle. It reminds me of lightly chiming bells, tolling in harmony. It will

always be my name, always has been. But before a party, my family brought up the

forgotten. My true name. My real name, which I must use during the party. I was truly

named after my great-grandfathers. You can not tell in my name, Danielle. This is why my

family insisted I use my real name, Davida Josefa. Bells falling to the

floor and cracking, with a deep clang. An ugly name. As if I was supposed to be a boy, David

Joseph, and when I was not an "a" was desperately added to my name, in an effort to please the

grandparents. Davida Josefa. I am expected to honor their memories all my life by using their

names. Fine, in private, where the deep, noisy, ugly toll of the bells will be heard by none.

A tree falling in the forest, where no one can hear it. But now the tree and the breaking bells

will fall in public, will be heard by all. Why? Why is it necessary for all invited to hear

the resounding clash of metal and branches? Instead of the sweet sound of the bells working

together, the tree growing taller instead of dying and tumbling slowly to the ground, the proud

trunk finally bent in defeat. This is Davida, and it has been defeated. Defeated by the light

sound of bells and the tree growing tall, sucking in sweet nourishment from the ground and

turning welcome sunlight into growth and reinforcement of the strong bark and trunk, still

standing. Danielle.