When You Know her Name

Shakespeare asked “What’s in a name?” I wondered why my mother named me my title. Why did she do it? Was it humor? Was she trying to be ironic? I’m a member of the Alpha Generation and the youngest in my family.

They say, “There she goes! There she goes again!” I take it in stride. I have my own bearing to know that I am more than my name. It’s like when I was on the playground during recess.

“C’mon, play with her!” A teacher with lipstick on her teeth. I felt her sweet spite.

The other kids dragged their feet to come over to me.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I responded.

“Okay,” And they ran away as the teachers cackled.

Gym class was better. I could reach the top of the rope. I even won the Presidential Service Medal for attaining that feat. I just looked at the placard and found my first name. I half smiled and grumbled as they took pictures.

At home, I continued my streak of getting into my room and locking the door. I used a Korean social networking site as my refuge. Homework could wait. I wanted to get on and start video, text, and photos.

A burst of joy exploded in my consciousness. I could control my world from my room. Pictures of dogs and spaceships could be transmitted instantly…all over the globe. I think the International Space Station, too. Anyway, I could use a handle that every one of my 10,000 pledges could appreciate.

I made myself happy with the motion, words, and images that I could add various amounts of emojis and other stickers to them. And the money. The money was good for a fourteen-year-old.

In the time it took for me to login and tune in, I could make about $600 a day with my pledges. I respect their patronage. Then I’m called down for dinner.

When I reach the landing, my entire family besides my parents mockingly say my name.

“Now, now. You all know that she doesn’t like that,” My mother intoned for the umpteenth time. My father just shook his head and said the thank you session.

“Thank you to the supply chain. Thank you all for being productive in your own ways. Thank you all for being here.” We ate.

I was back in my room, the door locked again. I looked at my screen in sheer terror. One of my classmates had posted my birth name on a site that I thought NO one in this country even paid much attention to at all.

All over the place in each of the modes of media that i had engaged in, my name was plastered all over the site. I threw my phone on the floor, breaking the glass cover screen. The phone was protected but the cover shattered like broken dreams.

I didn’t cry. I just peeled the cover off and tried to damp the blazes of the digital landscape. I took to the Web like a ninja, surreptitiously adding comments by starting a whole new avatar. I visited other people’s pages and dropped lines that were along the lines of “Hey! That’s fake news, right? She can’t have that name in real life. Not now. Not ever, am I right?

This all was a fruitless effort. I cleaned up the cover pieces and dumped the remains in the bathroom waste paper basket. I stayed with the phone. I switched to my original account. More messages piled up like wrecks at a demolition derby. I saw my pledges plummet. And then I heard my name. The cringe-worthy title echoed throughout the house.

“Karen!”

And I just exhaled and responded to the call.