Tomatoes In My Lunchbox

I don’t recognize my name at roll call the first time. The teacher says it like it’s too hard to understand. Then she says it again, one syllable at a time. It’s strange and sharp, and sounds like something is breaking.

Then children in my class say my name, and it is like it doesn’t fit in their mouths. It sounds like a question every time. When my mama says my name, it’s soft like summer and round with love and color and light.

I want to be Olivia, Sophie, or Chloe. Or Emma, with yellow hair like the sun and the blue sky in her eyes- any other name that is an answer. They can laugh and dance, and everyone understands their names.

My mama tells me my name is beautiful and it’s different. But it’s not beautiful here, and I don’t want to be different. I want a name that fits inside the front of my book. I want a name I say once and people know it’s a name. I want a name that stories are about.