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Writer's pictureVomit

I Don't Hate My Birth Name

By Isaac Hart





I don’t hate my birth name. When I was born, my parents chose a name for me that they loved because they loved me. I was named Isabel. Isabel. Isabel. Isabel. I haven’t typed it out in a while and I wish I was writing this on paper because I haven’t written it out in a while either. My fingers are pretty used to typing it out though. Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel. This feels good. I-S-A-B-E-L. When you read that, make sure you say each letter one at a time. If you didn’t, go back and read it again. That’s what I learned to spell. I-S-A-B-E-L. (Make sure you read the letters again). I could have gone back and copied and pasted I-S-A-B-E-L in that last sentence, but I didn’t, I typed it out again, and then I typed them out again in this sentence.


It’s weird. Because I feel like I should hide it. Some people call it a dead name. That is fine. Actually, let me be very clear, for some trans people, that is very important. For their safety: physical, emotional, social, personal. For some trans people, it is very important, critically important, that they keep their birth name completely in the past, completely separated from the now. This is a disclaimer before you read on (read it a few times if you need to /// read it a few times if you’re cis): Every trans person has a different relationship with their birth name, for reasons they can control and also for reasons they can’t control. For me, Isabel is not my dead name. It was the name I was given at birth that I decided to change. Isabel isn’t my name, but it isn’t dead.


I just whispered it. You do that now, whisper it. Whisper Isabel. Feel it in your mouth. Do it again, because maybe you didn’t listen to me that first time and I want to make sure you feel it. If you know me, and you’ve known me for a while, maybe you’ve called me that before. Depending on how you know me, that maybe was sad or challenging or weird. Right now, just focus on how it sounds. Because the letters together are just sounds, really. They used to be sounds that meant me. Now they aren’t.


They used to be sounds that meant me. Now they aren’t.


Whisper it like a hundred times until it doesn’t feel like a name anymore. Maybe it already didn’t feel like a name to you because it wasn’t the name that people called you when it was your birthday and they sang it in a song. Because it wasn’t the name your parents and your sister called you when they were proud of you or angry with you or wanted to get your attention at Greenwood St. Beach. Because it wasn’t the name your kindergarten teacher called you when they read the roster on the first day of school. Because it wasn’t the name the referees called when they read your player ID card before your soccer games. Because it wasn’t the name you called yourself a zillion times to a zillion people. Because it wasn’t the name your best friends called you. Because it wasn’t the name your camp counselors wrote on your drawstring camp bag that looked like everyone else’s drawstring camp bag but was different because it said Isabel on it. (If I was focusing on my craft of writing I would say that bit went on a little too long but if I’m focusing on what I’m actually thinking right now I’d say it didn’t go on long enough.)


I could cry right now if I wanted to.


I don’t hate my birth name. It was the name my parents gave to me. My great-grandfather on my mom’s side was named Irv. He died before I was born. In Ashkenazi Jewish tradition, you don’t name your babies after living people. Lots of Jews name their babies after relatives who have recently died. It’s thought that the baby will emulate the virtues of the deceased namesake during their life. Some people think the soul of the recently deceased loved one will live on in the new baby who holds their name. I don’t really believe in souls, and I wouldn’t say my family is all that Jewish, at least not religiously. But I was given the name Isabel (Isabel, Isabel, Isabel, Isabel, just so I can type it a few more times) because of this tradition. Because Irv starts with an I and so does Isabel. My parents also just loved the name, and they loved it for their new baby, who they loved even more than the name. This part of the story is here because my birth name has a history.


This part of the story is here because my birth name has a history. Isabel. Isabel. Isabel. Isabel. (I’m typing on my phone now, so now it feels like I’m texting it, not typing it).


I have met people named Isabel since I changed my name. One of my sister’s best friends and roommates is named Isabel. I hear my parents and my sister talk about her. I hear my parents say “LucyandIsabel.” That used to be us. LucyandIsabel. IsabelandLucy. It was one word. It’s weird to hear it about someone else.


For a couple years after I asked people to stop calling me Isabel, I did not like the way it sounded at all. When I heard it, my chest would get tight and my stomach would drop. But not because Isabel is bad. It wasn’t because I hate my birth name.


I don’t hate my birth name.


I hated having to correct people, to know that people thought I was a girl and that they didn’t know I was trans (or they did and that was bad too) and that I was going to have to tell them and that they would hear it in my scared voice and that I would feel scared and awkward and small. I hated having to tell people actually I emailed you before class could you please use the name I told you to use, and actually my legal name is not what I go by so could you please change it in your system, and actually I know I am in here peeing in a cup to prove to you I’m not pregnant so that I can get my next month of accutane and my chart says I’m female because accutane refuses to let me register as male because I have a uterus and that isn’t even my legal name anymore so I don’t know how you even have that name but I guess it follows me everywhere.


It follows me. That isn’t scary for me. For a couple years after I told people to stop calling me Isabel, cis people made me feel like hating my birth name. I thought I had to hide it because cis people made me feel like I had something to prove to them. That is scary for me.


I don’t hate my birth name. I don’t hate being trans. I love being trans. Read that last sentence again. Read it again. Read it again. I love being trans.


Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel

(I’m back typing on my laptop)


I don’t really know what I am trying to say with this. I think I am trying to say that I am sad that I don’t get to be named the name that my parents wrote on a big piece of butcher paper every year and hung on the wall every year for my birthday and the name that I made my first email address with and the name that is on the inside cover of my first journal and the name that was my name but now it isn’t. Maybe if I were braver and maybe if people weren’t so fucking horrible about trans people I would be a man named Isabel.


I am feeling frustrated because I don’t think I am communicating what I am feeling. I don’t hate my birth name. I don’t hate my birth name. Isabel. Isabel. Isabel. I-S-A-B-E-L. (Read the letters). I wish I was able to express how complicated Isabel is for me.


I wish I was able to express how complicated Isabel is for me.


I wish I was able to express how complicated Isabel is for me.


Maybe I can’t, because your name wasn’t Isabel and then not Isabel. I want to tell people about Isabel but it is hard. Maybe you could call me and we could talk about it with our voices. That would be pretty funny, especially if I don’t know you. I’m not going to leave my phone number here. But you know what, I was mostly joking but I actually don’t hate that idea. Maybe if you want to talk more about ISABEL, you could message me. I’m sure you can find me on social media. I’m not joking. Seriously. I don’t hate my birth name.


I don’t want you to be confused though: this is not a sad story. I get to be sad about things I have lost or missed out on or am nostalgic about because I am trans. But this is not a sad story. I love to be trans. I love to be trans so much.


I love to be trans so much.


I picked the name Isaac (Isaac Isaac Isaac Isaac Isaac Isaac Isaac Isaac so that my fingers can continue to build it into their muscle memory) because it is the name my parents chose for me if I had had a penis when I was born. They chose the name Isaac for the baby who wasn’t quite born yet who they loved. I love the name Isaac. I love Isaac. I do. But this story is about Isabel. I get to hear Isaac every day. I write down Isaac all the time. I am proud of that and I am grateful for that. Also, I missed writing Isabel. I miss saying Isabel. Isabel did so much for me and I am sorry I had to let go of Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel.


On February 10th, 2019, I wrote an entry in my journal about Isabel. I can’t remember exactly when Isaac stayed for good but I finished a journal entry “-I” on December 2nd of 2018 and I finished a journal entry “-Isaac” on December 30th of 2018. Here is that journal entry from February 10th of 2019 at 5:34pm (I wish you could read it in my handwriting. It’s black pen and it’s messy and also on the page is a ripped piece of the wrapper of my at the time new syringes for my testosterone that have retractable needles):


“Goodbye, b. Goodbye, e. Goodbye, l. I am proud of all you have done with me. You make me feel brave and strong. I feel lucky to let you go. I appreciate the work you did for me. Thank you, b. Thank you, e. Thank you, l.


Welcome, c. I am so happy to have you. You make me feel new and full. I feel lucky to have you. I am excited about all you’ll do with me. Thank you, c.”


My name is Isaac and my name used to be Isabel. You don’t get to call me Isabel, but you also don’t get to tell me I can’t say Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel Isabel. I love Isaac. I love Isabel. I don’t hate my birth name. I love being trans. I love being trans.


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