It was an odd question.

It was an odd question.

One that I had not expected to be asked ever.

Let alone in a context where the answer would actually change something.

It’s a simple question.

What name do you want on your diploma?

Simple, Right?

What is the name you want to be on the product of 5 years of study?

It sits right there on a mundane form.

As if it isn’t the best thing that has ever been asked.

As if the act of asking for a preferred name isn’t revolutionary.

As if not assuming that a legal name is the name that one would want on documentation

Isn’t the most wonderfully inclusive thing in the whole world.

It’s a simple question that made me beam like a two-year-old at candy.

Then it made my stomach twist.

Could I really put my name?

Not the name of my former self.

Not the legal technicality that I am forced to put on so many other things.

Could I truly be allowed to do that?

I thought, ‘Of course not.’

What would my parents think?

My parents

who were the people

whose names

were on the loans

that allowed me to get this education.

They would never allow me to put my name

over the name they had given me.

What about my siblings?

Those who had grown and graduated with their legal names

with no thought to what name should be on their diploma.

No consideration to putting another

even if the option had been there.

What about my other family members?

The ones convinced that all of this was just a phase.

The ones who still wouldn’t even call me by name.

Of course, I couldn’t.

But still the question stares at me.

What name do you want on your diploma?

Mine.

I want my name.

Screw the consequences.