My Name

The name that was given to me came with a standard that I do not uphold. It feels like cardboard, boxing me into femininity. My nickname doesn't suit me any better. “Bella” (and we can silence the a) rings in my ear, and is followed by words that I don’t want to pay attention to.
My dad named me Isabella, in hopes of a beautiful, dainty, passive daughter. Instead he got me. And though he loves me nonetheless, I can’t help but notice the silent disappointment in his eyes. When we were little, we were threatened with “etiquette school” when we “weren't acting like nice young ladies.” Young lady. I hate that term.
My eyes are blue, which I think suits me more than my name. Blue like the sky, blue like the ocean. Violent waves hiding violent words that I’m not allowed to say. “Don’t” is somehow stripped of its meaning with a quiet “please.” And all my worth is in my grades, and in my body. And in my eyes that are so “pretty.” Pretty. I hate that term.
My mom wanted to name me Bellaleia, which also does not fit. It’s like going into a store and trying on dresses that make you feel too big. But my name is Isabella Leia, and as I stare at my body I can’t help but think that such a pretty name is wasted on me. A sparkly pink prom dress, that would’ve brought out some other girl's eyes. But not my blue ones.
I mentioned my nickname, Bella. Which really is just used because saying my whole name is a waste of breath. Squints, a nickname so kindly bestowed upon me by my childhood friends, refers to my right eye that rests smaller than the other. When I moved schools, I purposefully began to hold it open, and no one has called me Squints since.
My mom calls me starshine, and calls my sister sunshine. I’d like to note that stars shine dimmer than the sun. My sister is beautiful and charming, and deserves every bit of the love my parents give to her. But of course, her name means “a father’s joy” and doesn’t seem like it weighs on her as much as mine weighs on me. Abbie has so much more freedom than Isabella.
Abbie calls me Hells Bells, which is only sometimes loving. Most of the time, though, it’s screamed through anger and annoyance. I think I like this nickname the best. It feels more free. My sister doesn’t care what my grades are, and couldn’t care less about what I look like. I am her little sister, and through every fight and every confession session, that never changes.
My name doesn’t suit me, but I’ve found other ways to express myself. My clothes, my jewelry, my poetry, all make up a person separate from my name. A person that I can recognize. But my dad is my father, my mom is my mother, and I am still Isabella. So I work myself until my mind is numb, and in my free time I scream that my eyes are blue, and my nails are black, and I am strong enough to plead.