My Other Name
I was five when I learned I had another name, besides what my parents gave me. The name was first born out of my younger sister’s anger who never understood my difference—which for her and other kids were unusual and difficult to comprehend. For them, the world operated in black and white. Dolls are for girls; cars and toy guns are for boys. I wouldn’t blame them, we were taught to see the world in such banality and convenience.
But growing up was tough if you happen to be in the gray area.
As I ran my soft little hands and patted it against the black silky hair of my sister’s limited edition Barbie doll—donned in gold Filipiñana, beaded in intricate red gumamela patterns, and crowned with pearls towering on her head like those queens in Sagala, I was caught in a trance, mesmerized in an unknown cadence of beauty that I can’t help but adore. I continued patting her, held her brown legs, making sure not to spoil the crisp sparkling saya shaping her hourglass figure. I lifted her slim brown arms, waving them like queens do. She was beaming with her white teeth framed in her cherry red lips. I giggled in adoration until I heard my sister’s voice.
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