She Was Here

I really don’t have a super distinct nickname but there is a story behind why I tell people to “just call me Bre”.

Being a black girl in a predominantly white, suburban school system in the Midwest should tell you everything you need to know. My parents detested the adenoidal sound of “BrEE-AENN-uh”. Imagining the signature Michigan ‘A’ of my future classmates and colleagues probably made their skin crawl. They knew if they were going to give me this name it had to not only fit me in terms of spelling but ensure it would be said correctly. It took three days before a nurse presented the golden spelling: Bre’Auna. Unique and phonetic.

Like I said before: black girl in the white Midwestern suburbs should tell you everything. Let’s add in the fact it’s the early 2000s to 2010s. The cultural (and racial) sensitivity we have and are striving towards now was nonexistent. More common than not assumptions would be made about my background; a long time classmate even had the nerve to ask if my parents were ghetto after contemplating the spelling of my name. Mind you, he knew my parents. His mother adored me, my sister and our parents. That was the straw to make the camel’s knees buckle.

Ever heard of an “angry crier”? That was me. That is me. Even more so at 13 years old. By then I was already a master at choking down tears. My face ran hot, hands vibrating and clammy and emotions slammed into each other harder than the heated up molecules our science teacher described. Embarrassment, angry and of course sadness. But not one of them showed on my face. I remained stony and rigid while slowly packing my belongings for a break neck exit. It was only a matter of minutes before the bell signaled my freedom.

In the five minutes between fifth and sixth hour I managed to regulate myself. I wouldn’t have to deal with him for the rest of the day or the weekend. Plus it was finally time for language arts— my favorite class— with a substitute. The excitement for the upcoming movie dissipated as I realized the substitute was halfway down the roll. Two more… one more… oh crap. There goes the camel’s back.

In all fairness I didn’t expect much from the pale, five foot nothing great grandmother standing in for my teacher. But the fog horn like sound that came after a long and confused pause: “Bray-OOOON-Nah?” Never in my life had I been so tempted to throw myself out of a window. It would’ve been for the floor to just swallow me had I not heard snickers reminding me that I wasn’t completely free from the previous class’s humiliation. As I snapped internally my voice betrayed me, “It’s just ‘Bre’. And I’m here.”