YOU’RE SHYLA.
Your mother gave you that name. Your father felt it was as country as it wanted to be. Before you were born, your name brought pleasant imagery to her mind. You’d be like a Shy Lil’ Singer, her own Shy Lil’ Singer. But it was the wrong name for you. You weren’t shy, you were a bold little thing. Just how many times did your father wake up to see big, black eyes baring holes into his face? And you didn’t sing, you wrote. On walls specifically. Why wouldn’t you? There’s more room, a better flow. YOU’RE SINFUL. You’re not dumb and it makes you mad that some adults think you are just because your little. You hear things. You notice things. Like how your grandfather never smiles at you and while your grandmother does, she doesn’t get too close. One day, you’ll learn what makes one child’s birth cleaner and purer than the others. YOU’RE SHYLA. The first time you realize you dislike your name is how your mother yells after you when you toss oranges at Isaiah. Like you’re the bad one when he is. The first time you cringed at your name was when you heard Cynthia from 4th grade chirp, ‘Ged ova’ here Lala!’ And the first time you wondered about your name’s, validity, was in your proudest moment. You won, you won and got a ribbon for the story you wrote. You wrote the best story in the whole school! Against other little girls with names like Jennifer. Lisa. Michelle.
Names that felt real. Names that didn’t get giggles or ugly abbreviations. You’re sick of Shyla being stuck to you intertwined with you until the day you die. It sticks out in the midst of Jennifer’s, Lisa’s, and Michelle’s. You want a real name too, you want Sheila. You’ve heard the time a handful of times in your life; sometimes on the phone and sometimes on TV. It sounds beautiful, and real. So, you’re Sheila now.
YOU’RE SHYLA CHILDRESS to your grandparents, the CAMPBELLS. They’re your blood, but it’s like this name separates you from them. ‘Oh, who was ‘Mina’s man?’ Sister Violetta asked your grandfather the day you met the plump Church Woman. And his lips shift, the name falling from his lips is icy; “Childress.” But then, you’re RUTH. The minute your grandparents took you away from your mother and that awful man you had to think of as a father, you’ve always been Ruth. While you’re young, and naturally there are a few similarities due to relation; you don’t act like your long-absent aunt. But when you fed up your Granddaddy he barked, ‘RUTH.’ Then he looks at you – and you look at him, and you realize that being around they can look at a child in their home in think of her. You’re Shyla Childress and yet you’re also Ruth Campbell. Both people who don’t describe who you are. You’re not a little girl with an ugly name like Shyla and you’re not somebody you never met either.
YOU’RE SHEILA.
