I first become aware of my name in the first grade. I had a long hair around my waist, but my new (evil) stepmother wanted me to have the "in"  haircut which was a short "pixie."  It was the time of Sandy Duncan as Peter Pan; it was Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, it was the big lash model, Twiggy’s look.  However, to me, it was neither. 

 

I didn't know of such references. I was a little girl with a boy haircut and an androgynous name.

 

I was always asked by other kids if I was a boy or a girl,

and if that wasn't enough, the teachers also seemed not to know.  

It made me feel sad, confused and lonely. 

I did not tell anyone at home.  I was petrified of my step-mother. 

 

In retrospect, all I needed was a colorful barrette

and my problem (one problem) would have been solved.

 

As I got older, I looked up the origins of my name,

hoping to find some significant meaning like

"child of G-d" or "great gift" or "peace."

 

Nope.

The origins of my name come from middle English,

the Linden tree.

 

A tree.

 

All I could think of was a trunk.  

I wanted something meaningful.

 

My name became more unique. 

 

unique status = different 

 

I lumped my name and being motherless together. 

 

Everyone was named Jennifer, Karen or Beth and they all had

 

mothers.