It was a miserable, hot September afternoon, but I had no care in the world. I was ecstatic to be spending the day with my dad at the fair, just as any 8 year old would be. Rocking the bowl cut, basketball shorts, and stained t-shirt you could say I was a bit of a tom-boy, but I never felt ashamed of the fact that I wasn’t your typical “girly-girl”. After riding the swings at least a thousand times and seeing who could eat the most funnel cake without puking, it was time to take a whirl at the water gun races. As I took the lead at the last minute and graciously reached the finish first, I began jumping up and down excitedly. Shortly after, the celebration was interrupted by the girl behind the counter when she politely asked me my name. I replied “Owen” and she said to my father “You must be so proud of your little boy!” She went on to rave about my triumph, but my excitement had vanished. For the first time, I felt ashamed of who I was. Little did I know, this was only the first of many times that my identity would be defined by my name and exterior, but not by who I was.
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Growing up, I loved the connotation of my name and I often strived to live up to its definition. I would shout my name proudly to anyone who would listen, but after that fateful September afternoon, it became something that was lost in the whispers of my shame. I tried to embrace my inner girly side as I grew out my hair and traded the basketball shorts for skirts, not because that was who I wanted to be, but because I thought it’d make things
Growing up, I loved the connotation of my name and I often strived to live up to its definition. I would shout my name proudly to anyone who would listen, but after that fateful September afternoon, it became something that was lost in the whispers of my shame. I tried to embrace my inner girly side as I grew out my hair and traded the basketball shorts for skirts, not because that was who I wanted to be, but because I thought it’d make things