Week 5 Response - Citizen

“Hey Patsy, Hey Laura,” you say. Patsy looks at me. She knows I’m always up for a fight and I am normally, but today, I’m tired.

Patsy says, “Her name’s not Laura.”

You’re immediately apologetic. “I meant Laura,” you say, satisfied now that you remembered the difference between Law-ra and Laou-ra.

“It’s Jennifer, actually,” I say.

Your face falls with an, “Oh.”

I want to question your surprise, but I don’t. It makes sense. Laura and I are both short and dark haired and friends with Patsy. Even though we all took chemistry together last year and were lab partners at one point, it makes sense. Laura’s hair is black and cut into a bob and her skin couldn’t be lighter. My hair is past my waist with light brown highlights right now and I’m several shades off-white, especially compared to Laura. But it makes sense.

Or was your surprise because of what my name was? “Jennifer” is Welsh in origin, derived from Guinevere, and means “Fair Phantom.” Just for fun, my last name means “polished,” so I’m a shiny ghost. I’ve spent the better part of two decades arguing with my parents over why they chose that as my name. They’ve never said, “Because it’s easy to say in English,” but that’s the real reason. It didn’t matter that for my grandmother and my aunts that don’t speak English, it’s very hard to say in Spanish. Yen-EE-feir.

It’s a shame. You’re cute. I could’ve gotten to know you. Maybe we could’ve dated, gotten married, had a few kids. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, especially since you don’t know my name, but I always get ahead of myself. Now in our imaginary future, I know we’d have one of two problems. Either you’d remember I’m different or you’d forget. If you remembered, you’d ask if we could skip dinner with my parents because, “It’s hard for me to understand them.” If you forgot, you’d complain to me that your boss was trying to add diversity to the team and because of it, you’d rejected over a dozen “perfect” candidates that would have fit nicely into your old boys club.

Either option would be terrible. But we’re not married, we’re having a conversation, and you’re saying, “I’m really sorry, I can’t believe I mixed you up.”  

I smile, say, “It’s fine, it happens.” Not to you. But it happens.