My name is generic. It is the store brand cereal you buy because it’s cheaper.
It’s based upon convenience. It is the unworthy leader. It’s the boring drum major at the forefront of the parade. It is a mask. It hides the true me, and I hate it.
My name is the wrong color. It is a light-brown haired white girl with blue or green eyes.
It is the wrong era, personality, and vibe. It doesn’t flow or groove as I do. It doesn’t belong to me, it’s just attached to me. It just exists: it does not live. It’s the shy kid at the middle school dance. It sits in the corner. A wallflower.
My middle name, however, is what is most important to me. It is the body of the butterfly; what holds everything together. It is unique and driven. It is quirky. It drinks tea in poodle skirts while listening to vinyl. It wants to travel the world. It is the law and it’s steel worker strong.
I wish my middle name was my first. Frances. I could be Frankie. My middle name is care-free. It has a personality. It’s my awkward laugh, my creative side, and my undercover badass. It is my true identity. It is a breeze in a field of grain. It’s dolphin skin. Smooth. You can’t teach smooth. It’s earned, I earned that name. It wasn’t found, it was inherited.
It is leather jacket clad. It stays up past its bedtime. my middle name lives for the moment. It has goals and dreams. It’s nothing like the rest. It is its own self. It exists and lives. Frances. She’s who I want to be. It’s what I will soon become. Frances. Frankie.
The face behind the mask.