Like a washing machine made of mold, my stomach turns and jerks when I hear my first name. When I fold the letters over my tongue to maybe like it for once; but I don’t. It feels far from me, like someone who I’ve never been. The name holds no meaning, not to me nor my mom. So why bother holding it as my first introduction, as what defines me, as who I am? I can’t live that life, to grow to only be meaningless. So, I don’t. “Leah” is dead to me.

Ann-Jeanette. That is my name. Ann is my grandma’s middle name and Jeanette is my great grandma’s first name. I like the way it sounds, like a love song full of autumn warmth and hot chocolate. Or caramel drizzle and chocolate brittle. Ann-Jeanette is my middle name. 

When I was in elementary school, I read a book called Number the Stars. I loved this book, I loved the name of the main character: Annemarie. It was new and pretty.  

Now, my name holds my future—how I will impact the lives of anyone who will listen. My name will be remembered for the work that I have done to improve this world. Those who I have helped will know my name. And in return, I will use my name, my abilities, and my life to give all that I can for their lives. For our lives.