Poem: Sometimes I forget my own name.

Not the way it is spelled

though that is not the same

for it is familiar as the freckles on my fidgeting hands.  

I argue with my primary teacher about syllables, 

my tiny foot stomping in indignation at her insistence 

that my name is pronounced the way she writes it on the board. 

Too small to reach up and wipe away the marker, 

I fight with my words instead. 

The battle didn’t last as long as I hoped. 

I find myself rushing through the saying  

of my own name as though it is a word from a book 

that I skip over in my head, 

too scared to say it out loud for fear of being wrong.  

It’s been days since I called my family, 

and message after message of TALYA typed in all caps 

as my little sister tries to get my attention 

is enough to make homesickness hit me like a bus. 

When I chose a new nickname for my friends to use, 

(they cannot say the ones I grew up with) 

I wondered if I was doing something wrong. 

Was I giving up on myself too easily? 

Over time, I’ve grown fond of that nickname, 

but it always feels a little bit like coming home 

when I call my family and soak in the sound of my name, 

spoken the way it was designed. 

sometimes my mouth doesn’t form the syllables right. 

I’m scared to tell them that there are twists and turns where there shouldn’t be. 

  I don’t use my name enough to truly keep it. 

TALYA      TALYA      TALYA      TALYA      TALYA      TALYA      CALLLLLLL     PLEASEEE