What is my name? It’s less than a symbolic handle, for sure. It’s simply what my mother has decided to call me for the rest of my life because the name has a “nice ring” to it. Writing my name on papers doesn’t seem right. I’m not a Judy. Judy is a creepy aunt whom everyone tries to avoid. I stare at my name and decide it’s not going to make me what it sounds like.

I’m not a Judy.