My Name

Inspired by Sandra Cisneros “My Name” 
from The House on Mango Street

Laurel wreath, sharp points, not serrated, not smooth, not round, but oval. Why did she name me after a leaf, a tree, that strong smelling, good for stew, good for sauce, hard to pronounce in some tongues, an “l” at each end, a name so un-Jewish, unlike my middle name, Sara, after her mother? Sara no one would mis-pronounce, Sara, no one would startle, then halt, before diving into a pool, the “el” just about to leave the tongue.

Fragrant laurel leaves making the winner’s wreath without thorns, clearly defined leaves with a point at each end. Nothing hurts. Then why is it so sad, so quiet, unlike my brother, who could be loud, with the “k” at the end of his name—Mark—the end defined with no chance of falling into the water.

I used to think about changing my name to Lauren, Laura, Laurie, making accommodations to the world to be accepted, to blend in, because I wanted to be out of the way in a ponytail, invisible unlike my brother who created a storm out of a room, our parents whirling around him trying to contain him, hiring other people to make sense of him, though our father was a social worker.


My name was too much for me. I wanted something quieter, to fit how quiet I had to be—there was only room for one of my brother. I was nice. I was sweet. I was Laurel wanting to be Lauren, Laura, Laurie, writing those names in cursive in elementary school, learning the order of the letters in case I could change my name. I loved my family, felt safe but hated the yellow, hated who I was, closing the door to my room and stuffing my ears. My mother’s diets gave me a vision of my own body. Not having a high IQ, while members of my 4^th grade class went down the hall to the “gifted” program, gave me what I was worth. Positive negatives.


Only after I could be bad, did Laurel make sense, disappearing during lunch from temp jobs, stealing from stores, hallucinating in my dorm room, colors exploding, drinking the hard stuff in a car bound for downtown, with my housemates screaming “Louise” each other. Even with all this, I remained innocent on sugar overloads during the walk from 29^th Avenue home towards the ocean and park.

I grew into my name, because regardless of child or adult, always the child. It’s not enough that others say it. I grew into the “els,” framing me like a gate.