My Name Is-

I live in a world of Charleses. Everyone is named Charles: my mother, my father, the pope, the President, every actor, every doctor. All Charleses.

The name has never felt like it’s mine. As a kid, I liked making the sound “Chuck,” and so adopted it as my name.

I didn’t mean to be a troublemaker. On my first day of kindergarten, I told the teacher, a fresh-looking woman who was all smiles, that my name was Chuck.

“What was that, Charles? Can you tell me your name again?” she asked.

“My name is Chuck.”

“Nooo, I don't think so!” Miss Charles laughed. "Your name is Charles. Can you say, ‘Charles?’”

I demonstrated that I could say “Charles,” then insisted my name was Chuck. Miss Charles was no longer all smiles, but tried to move on. “We’ll talk about this later, Charles.” 

“My NAME is CHUCK.” 

Within eight minutes of class, I earned my first time-out. 

Later, Miss Charles spoke with my mom, who confirmed my name was Charles and apologized for my antics.

“I don't understand,” Mom said after we arrived home. “Why would you think your name is Chuck? Chuck isn't a name, sweetie.”

“My name is Chuck,” I insisted, but it was no use. 

Years unfolded—years of reaffirming my chosen name, at all circles, all institutions, for all paperwork. Years of disagreements and derision. 

When I left for college, Mom’s smile shone overly bright as she shared her parting wisdom. “Now, remember, sweetheart, you'll have a lot of opportunities at college. Lots of different ways of fitting in!”

“That's kind of what I'm counting on, Mom.” I grinned back.

“Knock it off,” Dad said. “You know damn well what your mother means.”

“I'm only saying, Charles, don't write off opportunities before you've had a chance to think about them! Your name might grow on you. Sharing your name with everyone else doesn’t make you less of an individual. You do want to meet a nice girl, don't you?”

Dad said, “Good point. You'll never have a girlfriend if you don’t stop this ‘Chuck’ nonsense.”

Yes, I wanted a girlfriend (or boyfriend), but not another Charles. I knew there had to be someone else out there who had chosen their own name. I felt optimistic that college would introduce me to some open minds.

College shattered my every dream. I found an atmosphere more stifling than what I left at home.

My roommate spent the entire semester giving me the silent treatment. Classmates snickered, whispered, mocked. I often felt distracted, wondering which of my studymates by day graffitied their hate onto my door by night.

Maybe I could have brushed all that aside, had the faculty not been equally nasty. One smug professor refused to grade anything I submitted under my chosen name. The course was required, but I dropped it, hoping that next semester’s professor would be less hostile, if not more sympathetic.

When winter break arrived, I actually longed to see my family again. I felt like I had been carrying a millstone instead of textbooks. I still went by Chuck, but was giving up hope that anyone would understand, much less respect, my decision. 

Dad was great—he ignored me the entire trip. 

Mom watched me furtively for three days, then sat me down at the kitchen table and demanded I tell her what was happening. 

Despite our differences, I had always tried to be open with Mom, so, putting aside my apprehensions, I confided in her. I admitted how lonely I was. How I craved companionship.

“If I can’t find someone who feels like I do, can’t I at least find someone who...lets me be me?” I asked, my throat thick and my eyes stinging. “I’m so tired, Mom.”

My mother looked at me from across the table. I didn’t know what she was thinking—maybe she was remembering the first time she had ever looked into my eyes. Maybe she was reflecting on the hopes she had nurtured for me, from birth to adulthood.

She told me, “You can’t expect the world to cater to you. It’s time to grow up.” She hesitated, chewing on her lip, before blurting, “I don’t understand why you keep doing this to your father and me.”

I could only blink at her in disbelief, but she took my silence as permission to continue. 

“I know you love us. Your father and I...we love you so much, Charles. But if you had any respect for us at all, you would think about how your behavior affects us. I know we raised you better than this, but the neighbors all talk about us”—her voice grew thick—“like we’re bad parents!” 

Mom dabbed at her eyes, letting the pregnant pause beg for validation, but I had nothing to say. Something broke inside me, then I felt a curious detachment, as though I floated above the table and looked down on two strangers conversing. I wondered when the love of my mother, who used to tuck me into bed with soft lullabies and big dreams, had become conditional. 

“Your father and I both think you’ll be so much happier when you accept reality.” She concluded with a sniff. I knew, right then, that while I might forgive her one day, I would never trust her again.

I drove back to college that same night. I might have expected to feel dejected, and in some ways I did, but I also felt defiant. They all wanted me to bend? Screw ‘em. 

Now, in my dorm room, I’m waiting for sleep and clinging to hope. Yes, I still believe you’re out there, waiting for me. I like to imagine our first meeting. 

The details of your appearance are forever shifting, but you always give me a knowing smile. I introduce myself, then you laugh in delight. “That's amazing,” you say, “because my name is—”

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