That Is Not My Name

“Hey, you over there! Yeah, you… blonde girl!” called a middle-aged woman from the front booth of a weathered breakfast diner. There it was again. Blond girl. The false epithet that tagged me with cruel stigmas of stupidity and inadequacy. I repressed a visible grimace, coerced the corners of my mouth to rise, and trudged over in the direction of the voice and waving hand. More coffee. So, the blonde girl made the trip to the kitchen for a new cup of hot coffee for the millionth time that day. Rachael had not gone once. 

 

In fact, Rachael hardly participated in public activities at all. Instead, the blonde girl served tables in the summer. The blonde girl sat quietly in the third row of her ninth grade history class, and she played right-midfielder on the soccer field later on in the day. While I sat in her shadows, the stereotypical blonde girl namelessly occupied the spotlight. 

 

“Smash!” A fragmented mug appeared at my feet and the livid countenance of a coffee-drenched customer just above eye level. “Watch it blondie!” he growled before hastily proceeding on his route. Blondie—that was another one.

 

As I gathered the fractured chunks of ceramic and dried the steaming liquid, my heart raced while the hackneyed labels that tarnished my matchless existence echoed through my brain: blonde girl, dumb blonde, typical blonde, blondie. Misnomers.

 

For the longest time, I resented you, blonde girl. I was so much more than you, but no one seemed to care. Unlike the stereotypical “dumb blonde,” I tirelessly absorbed materials provided in the classroom, and I pushed myself harder every day to shave another second off my 400 meter sprint time. I did not squander any time begging my parents to purchase me a brand new car when I got my license; instead, I spent my summers waitressing and saving every penny that I could to fix up the luxurious, sibling-and-surfboard-friendly 2004 Honda Odyssey in the driveway. I stood proud and confident next to my research projects at various science fairs and symposiums—places not so typical for a dumb blonde—year after year. Slowly, but surely, freeing myself from you.

 

Engaging in independent research led me to a newfound confidence in my intellectual capabilities. Previously, I never imagined that I would have the courage to stand confidently in front of a panel of experienced judges and articulate my analysis without crippling under the pressure of their scrutiny. But with awards and recognition for my hard work, I feel empowered by my success; I know that I have the power to make a difference as Rachael.

 

“Hi! Yes, table for two, please. And may we request Rachael as our server?” politely inquires the woman at the register of that same weathered breakfast diner, today. I start for the table as they settle in, and this time the corners of my mouth eagerly rise to shape a bona fide beam. Finally, the blonde girl had a name.

 

“We would love two coffees please, Rachael,” the woman kindly expresses as I approach the booth. So, I turn around to make the trip to the kitchen—knowing that my developed diligence and my true colors finally shine brighter than my platinum streaks.

 

The End.

 

 

Yours Truly,

 

Rachael