What's a Heba?

I never stood a chance. Deep down I knew it would never work, but yet there I was eleven years old and a charlatan with my "Heather" engraved lunchbox. I can close my eyes now and still take in the faint wet smell of Elmer’s glue as the hot swell of embarrassment toasted my cheeks. I wanted to evaporate, disintegrate into a million particles and reconfigure somewhere else. It was a silly idea after all, but I just wanted to be like everyone else, to fit in, and my brazen attempt had me now facing social exile.

Growing up with the unusual name of Heba gave rise to many annoyances like mispronunciations, teasing and the furrowed brows of confusion when I said my name. Two syllables were the cause of much grief as a child because they were different and the last thing I wanted to be was different. Substitute teachers were notorious for butchering my name inciting an anxious knot in my gut when calling out “Heeeeeeeeba”, never taking into consideration that it was a short ‘e’ instead of a long one. I was the tallest, brownest, most awkward looking creature that brought exotic lunches with her to school with names like baba ganoush. My very existence was an anomaly.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw my friend's lunchbox with her name on it, "Becky". She held it like a badge of honor grasping the handle with both hands as she sashayed from side to side while the other girls sang praise for her personalized pail. I then noticed Katie with her very own stickers and I finally broke when I saw Kelly’s name pressed onto a backpack in a rainbow of letters with an oozing pot of gold at the end. It was one of many experiences that made me feel like an outsider and I thought at last this was my ticket to belonging, something with my name on it. And so began the endless pursuit of trying to fit in.

I hitched a ride with my folks to a to a local store that weekend and began the hunt. Upon entry I immediately spotted a wheel that had on it personalized key chains near the check out counter. I eagerly skipped over and spun the wobbly metal around. C..F..G..H! Hazel, Heather, Hillary, Holly, Hope, Isabel…Wait, no Heba? I looked carefully once more and again there was no Heba keychain. Scratching my head I stood there puzzled at this major oversight when a very simple explanation arose. Aha! My name must be so popular that they are temporarily out of stock. That’s it! Need I mention that denial is a bitch? I had yet to meet another Heba in my life yet I persisted in my delusion. I confidently marched over to the store clerk and asked him if they had any Hebas in the back and he responded with, “What’s a Heba?”

“Heba is my name”, I said while retrieving the sword he had just thrust into my chest.

What was a Heba? Why did I have to be given that name out of all the names in the world? I contemplated the unfairness of it all with child like depth. Heartbroken at the prospect of living a long life with no Heba engraved anything, I chose to live a lie. It was in that moment that I decided to use the closest thing to my name, Heather. My imaginary dog Roscoe gave me a sharp snort through his nose as he anxiously ran in circles giving me his distress signal. What did he know anyway? Even he had his name branded onto a bone shaped tag. It turns out Roscoe was wise beyond his dog years and trying to save me from future humiliation. I pressed on with my disastrous plan.

There it was, golden stars bursting down onto a cherry red lunch box with bubble letters in the sought out formation. I stared at it for a long time as it was seemingly glowing, pulsating and calling me by my fake name. Images of popularity and belonging obscured the space of rationale between right and wrong. I grabbed my precious and made my way to the check out counter with Roscoe violently tugging away at my pant cuff with his teeth. But I did it. I bought it. Setting in motion an imprinted deep ravine of memory that would stay with me for decades. I learned one of many valuable lessons the day I brought that lunchbox to school.

As I got older it was clear that sameness and conformity were not virtues I wanted to live up to because as it turned out, I wasn’t like anyone else. I was singular with not another soul in the world who occupied the same space as I. I needed to feel in, not fit in. All that time in pursuit of belonging when in fact I was in pursuit of my identity; My identity that required nothing more than the recognition of her presence. She that offered her unconditional love and acceptance who when I finally met smiled at me and said, “Hello, my name is Heba and it means Gift.”