A Desired Name
My name has come with certain connotations I've learned to embrace
I would change a few things in this old piece. Listen to my critique here:
“A Desired Name” was originally published by Moonflake Press for their September 2021 Lush issue. Content warning: sexual assault.
At age eight or nine, she found one of those baby naming books at the local library. Sprawled on cheap carpet, she flipped pages on an exciting hunt to unlock the origins of her unique name. She wasn’t prepared for the startling entry that sounded more like a celebrity gossip article:
“Desiree” is French, derived from “desired.”
Famous Desirees include one of Napoleon’s many loves, Desiree Clary, and Lucille Desiree Ball.
Overtly sexual… lusty… sounds like a stripper’s name.
But what hit the building blocks of her soul was the author’s carefree comment at the end.
With the sexual connotations of the name, “why would anyone name their daughter this?”
She scanned the entry over and over, believing she must have read it wrong. She was a strong reader, but maybe this was too grown-up for her understanding. But there was no rectifying the verdict: she was inappropriate for existing. It was wrong to have her name.
And this was in elementary school, where you're encouraged to label every personal belonging with your name.
Now she wanted to hide and push away any attention.
***
Her name gifter was originally going to name her Priscilla. Her mom changed her mind after a walk in Queens while pregnant. She saw a sketchbook abandoned on a bench, picked it up, and flipped through the pages. The drawings were beautiful with just “Desirée” — an accent mark over the second of the three e’s — signed in the corner.
Her mom is the only person who still accessorizes her name with that acute mark. The daughter never cared for it. It made her name drip of erotica. Even though her mom sent heartfelt birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas cards full of esteem and how the daughter has navigated womanhood so well, her accessorized name was the only thing that stood out.
Like platform heels at the grocery store.
Ruby red lipstick in church.
An overpriced ripped mini skirt to practice bending over, unlike a lady.
Yeah, that was her daughter.
Thanks, Mom.
***
In eighth grade, a girl got pregnant and mysteriously disappeared, leaving our hero to growl many times that school year, “It’s not me!”
Because the pregnant girl’s name was, well, you know.
***
As she reluctantly grew into legality, men would comment on how beautiful the name “Desiree” was. Never guys her age. Older men. With stifled chuckles, lingering eyes, and physical builds that pressed into her comfort. Like there was a cheat code of crassness that would unlock her name’s seductive potential.
Those were the times the name book from the library would haunt her.
How could a mere girl carry a heavy name like that?
***
After she was drugged and raped in college, she was desperate to regain control. She went to the counseling center and signed up for a therapy group. After her first session, a frat guy with a cocaine problem asked to take her home. He talked about himself on the ride. He asked if the two of them could see each other again.
Was he not paying attention to her introduction about getting raped at a frat house?!
She said it was a bad idea, got out of his jeep, and walked to her dorm.
She felt like an idiot for taking the ride home. A Desiree would take the ride, though.
She wondered if she would have rebuffed him, if he was better looking. A Desiree would wonder that, and she knew the answer.
She never went back to group. She coped by dissecting her worth and throwing it like confetti.
She became a slut and highly intoxicated. Guys became dispensable.
It was inevitable, after all. Honestly, it felt kind of nice.
But when campus was quiet on holiday weekends, she wandered and relished in no one calling out to her.
She loved not hearing her name.
She constantly thought about reinventing herself and became obsessed with name change notices in the newspaper.
Then someone interesting would walk by and she would become distracted by the image of how the sex would feel.
Sometimes she would hit play on the fantasy to see how far she could take it.
And sometimes she’d hit play on Coldplay’s Parachutes album to see how many tracks she could go before craving attention again.
***
“Oh, you don’t hear that name every day,” said the receptionist.
“Ta-da,” I exclaim in deadpan, keeping my sunglasses on and slinking into a seat.
“That’s a pretty name,” said the nurse.
“Thank yoooouuu,” I draw out my Alexis Rose impersonation with raised pivoted shoulders and a scrunched-face smile.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” said the server.
I cock my head and offer a slight smile.
My brain automatically conjures possible interactions, positions, and, of course, sounds.
I straighten my posture, shorten my breaths so my bosom stays up and out, and let out the slight pop of an open pout.
Our eyes meet off and on and serve as a reminder to live up to what has become a tried-and-true gatekeeper, my given name.
With my mind clogged, I smile at my husband and cross and uncross my legs.
I feel like a child telling this story, but it was the beginning of more bold stories associated with the careful setting of layers. Anything pop out to you?
Heart breaking