They’ve given you a number, and taken ‘way your name.
We all have names; even secret agents have names. Ask ol’ Jimmy-boy. He may tell you his number is 007, but his NAME is Bond. James Bond.
Hello. My name is Girl. Lubby Girl. I live in the USA, and I have a husband and children and family and friends and a dog. His name is Boy. Spencer Boy (well, I can’t say his name is Girl. Spencer Girl, now, can I?). Husband’s name is Hubby.
I once thought my name was Charlie Brown, but it’s not. That’s my complex’s name. See, even a complex has a name – we all have a name!
When I was a kid, I used to pretend my name was Marsha. Funny – I don’t even like that name much any more (sorry, all you Marshas in the world…sad but true). Back then it sounded sophisticated and worldly to me. It sounded like success.
Marsha, dahling, what have you done with this place? It’s perfectly mahvelous!
You’re the famous Marsha? Oh, please . . . would you autograph this copy of your latest book for me?
Dr. Marsha, Dr. Marsha! Can you save him? Oh, I knew you could!
It’s Marsha – the world-renowned singer. Please, Marsha the Magnificent, sing for us!!
My dear Marsha, could you spare a moment to teach these young ladies the finer points of painting? Thank you so much – you’re the epitome of artistic genius.
Lies. The whole thing. I wasn’t Marsha then, and I’m not Marsha now. I’m not an interior decorator, but I can arrange a room. I’m not a doctor, but I can affix a Band-Aid. Nor am I an artist, but I can draw a pretty mean stick figure. And I’m certainly not a singer, but I love to sing anyway. Nope, you guessed it, not a famous author either – but I can write . . . and I can sew.
I’m just me, and I’m OK with that. I have a name that fits the me that I am. I don’t have to be The Great Pretender any more. And neither do you.
Good night. Don’t forget your name.
(written partly from sleep-depravation and partly in response to the writing challenge, “The Great Pretender.”)