Help Me Come Up With A Name

I sat at the desk, chipping away at the paint on a pencil. As all my surrounding classmates began to chatter away, I turned to look at the clouds. Such pretty clouds, such pretty clouds that made me feel like an atom on the earth. I then began to think about what was beyond the clouds, and how I longed to go to space. To float carelessly in space amidst the stars, a firsthand view of the world as I know it. My peaceful state was interrupted by my friend.
“What’re you looking at?” She asked in a tone intended to have one question themselves.
“What? Nothing.” Analise was such a pretty girl, she had blonde hair, a respectable body, and all the clothes in the world. Not to mention, she was popular and charismatic. I found her to be annoying at times, but who was I to decline her friendship?
She smiled, it very well might have been her resting face, or her face was just stuck in a grin. “Are you coming to the volleyball court?”
“Today? No, why?” I didn’t play volleyball as a result of getting yelled at by my classmates in gym when missing the ball. That, and I didn’t find it to be so amusing.
“Oh, like everyone is going, we’re like, preparing for volleyball season and stuff.” She proclaimed, her voice chipper. My eyes narrowed, I think.
“Who’s going?” I had a general idea of who “everyone” was to her.
“Well, Agnes, Rae, Malorie…” She went on to list half the school. I could tell she listed the people in the order they were more significant to her.
“I for real thought someone’dve told you.” She was surprised by the revelation that I was hardly ever invited to anything.
“I don’t like volleyball anyway.” I’d regretted saying so, knowing I sounded desperate to thaw at empathy.
she muttered obligatorily, “Do you want to come?” I declined, to which she changed the subject to gossip. I liked her fine, but I was relieved to hear the bell ring.


Walking through the halls hadn’t yet evoked any feelings. There was a harsh fluorescent light that blinded my eyes, and loud classmates of mine who were somehow yet to bother me. I walked through the hallways to see my best friends ignore me. I then convinced myself I didn’t care for them anyway. Afterall, I’m yet to come up with a more believable affirmation. I was excited for school to end in another two hours, as I had looked forward to walking a path I had found, instead of returning home. As I thought about the little path, I got to thinking about how pretty trees really are. Sometimes it seems as though the leaves glow in the sun. In fifth grade, I read countless books about trees and even wrote poems about willow trees. I arrived at my next class with my classmates akin to savages. They were awfully irritating that day. I had to put in effort to not get flustered. Later that day, I got to thinking about a story my mother told me of a woman who was trafficked when she was on a run. I could've sworn my face went blue. I decided against going to the little path after school. I wondered how I’d go about arriving home. I could walk home, go on the bus, or ask my grandpa to pick me up. All of which required interacting with somebody. I decided to go on the bus, staring out the window was always a selling point.


I had these points each day that I recorded to myself. Washing my hair, putting mascara on, staring out the window in the bus, flossing my teeth, waiting for the bus in the morning, etc. Little things that nobody ever really thinks of at the end of the day. One never really remembers how the exact moments followed after one another. I began, in those moments, to ask myself, “will I ever remember this moment again?” The only significant thing about those moments was the question itself. But maybe all these meaningless thoughts were a result of being alone too much. I was never invited to anything, I was always a last resort, and oftentimes I was made fun of by my friends so consistently I’d no clue what was right to say. When in tears about this rude thought, I would look to the sky and recite, “Only God knows me!” Who to turn to was an utter mystery. The thought of relying these thoughts on my family was unfathomable. I had kept face with my friends, and they effectively lost the idea of my unfiltered personality.


My dad once told me, “It’d be a waste if you don’t devote your life to politics.” It is a dream of mine to be a diplomat, to go to a prestigious university, and to work in the Department of Justice. Didn’t ever matter much which one, so long as I can establish human rights, and devote the rest of my life to humanitarian service, as Jesus would order. Ordered or not, though, the thought of ceasing the death or suffering of even just one person is such an ideal one. In addition, I had declared myself a devout feminist since the age of ten. My dad himself is very wise, wiser than a conservative, though he didn’t see radicals in such an appealing way. He would tell me often that most feminists were radical. I found his statement to be ridiculous. I asked my older brother, who I thought to be very smart, morally corrupt, but intelligent.
“I don’t think you're radical, just ridiculous.” He said after some consideration. He barely graduated from high school, he was kicked out of my mom’s house and he once stole her car in the dead of night. He was not a reliable source anyway. Many said that myself and my older brother looked very much alike to my father. I always claimed to take offense to it, but I was never one with a high-self esteem on the topic of my appearance.
My dad was undoubtedly very smart, he taught me all about science, politics, and history. Though he was an average man to what the eye met. He worked a blue-collar job, didn’t mind his appearance, gambled in the game of pool, and spoke obnoxiously over the phone. When I was younger, he seemed to be the smartest in the world. He was always speaking about things that appeared to be a wonder to me. When I began to read about those very topics and study them myself, I began to teach him things too. It was not to say that I was smarter than him, it simply never occurred to me that there may be a day when he can’t answer my questions. He to this day will remain greater than me. I can only stand here and say I'm proud of my intellect because of his teachings. Nonetheless, he spoke too much of my mom for my liking. It was a subject he could rattle on about for hours. It is shy of an understatement to say it was his favorite yet most hated subject.
My mom, on the other hand, hardly spoke of him. Aside from the occasional eye roll, furrowing of her eyebrows, and snarky comment of course. My mom’s ideal life is to have the necessary wealth, travel, and afford luxuries. To which I desperately explain to her that she is rich, she has luxuries, if compared to the citizens of the majority of the world. I often explain to her just how lucky we are to worry about trivial things like a dirty floor, or things that make us “middle class.” I always tell her about world problems that worry me.
“Well, you can’t change the world.” She declares it to be true.
“Yes I can.” I proclaim, to which she smiles. I once asked her what she told her friends about us as her children. She explains that she describes my elder brother, Salem, as the rebellious one, my younger brother, Ronnie, as the cutest one, and my youngest brother, Nino, as the energetic one. As for myself, she says she describes me as the smart one.
She added, “I’d also call you my pretty one, but Ronnie took the name.” Regardless of her fruitless joke, I was happy to have her think of me smart above all.


My elder brother Salem, was not one to sugarcoat.
“I want to work in Human Rights Services,” I was ready to add on, before he questioned me first.
“The U.N. or NATO?” He interrupted.
“Doesn’t matter right now, just as long as my thoughts and sense of justice have an effect on the world.” He paid no mind to my resolve, and was quick to unintentionally make my dream sound insignificant.
“Both do what the United States tells them to do anyway. And you know, diplomats make a ton of money.” He remarked while popping open a Coke can. The sound of the soda bubbling complimented my annoyance.
“I don’t care about that.” I mumbled in embarrassment while relishing in the realization of my ignorance.
“If you’re hoping to put an end to corruption, you’ll be assassinated before you can even introduce the idea.” He commented carelessly before chugging on the Coke. My mom wasn’t always so patient, she still isn’t. But, there was once a time when she didn’t tolerate anything but compliance. My poor, dear brother. Had I been more understanding, maybe he'd have had a chance at a happier life. One moment haunts me in particular, it was a week day like any other. Me, Salem and Ronnie shared a bedroom. We had a bunk bed. There were periods of time where he had his phone taken for months. He had snuck his phone back from my mom.
“Joci, don’t tell mom, ‘kay?” He whispered. I, being awful, proceeded to tell my mom. Once she took his phone, he smacked me upside the head. Being hit was nothing to what he heard everyday. If I were to go back in time, I’d let him smack me around for every time I caused my mom to give him a beating, but I digress. I told my mom that he had hit me. The stomps in the room haunted me. She stormed in. My elder brother was on the top bunk, she grabbed him by his hair, and threw him on the floor. She scolded him, before storming back out again to brush Ronnie and Nino’s teeth. I still remember his meek and thin body shaking on the cold ground, each flinch causing a creek in the floor.
“Salem? Are you okay?” I was horrified. I couldn’t have imagined my mom would ever do that. It was needless to say that my mom wasn’t always so warm and sweet to me as she is now, but I was still her only daughter. I remember shaking him and begging for an answer until he climbed up the top bunk. I do not remember if she apologized. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. If she had, I think that even I wouldn’t forgive her.