I Don’t Know My Name

Hello, called me Vandana.

"That's original? How did you end up with a beautiful name?

I chuckle and smile and extend my arm.

It was what the police and whoever brought me to the orphanage at two years old. My adoptive parents decided to change it to Moriah (some biblical term that my pastor father decided would acclimate me better in this god-forsaken world.)

I've never known my real name. My date of real birth (they chose one at the orphanage to put me in a "system")

I couldn't tell you much before the time before I was moved to the States. I can only remember what they told me.

Off the plane. I refused to let the woman who I know call Mom hold me. The man who I now call my father is the only one who I would let touch me and swiftly hold my thumb to my lips and be silent in a second.

I hated American food (this is what I have only been told.) But the presence of a banana and I would stop my crying ( this took a long time.)

I grew up in a middle-class family. My brother wasn't very nice to me when we got older so I feel so alone.

Not only did they adopt an Indian child. They raised us in a world of strictly American culture. And yes, white American culture.

I tried my first Indian food by 19 in college.

I was surprised when the waiter asked me why I didn't know what Naan was.

He said his son and daughter have known this since their very first years. I was just more upset about that and I should have known.

I've been lost before then. I should have known that growing up Albino would have made it even harder to fit in. I'm exhausted but guess what, I'll never know my true name.

You want to ask what I believe is an existentialist crisis.

Well, could you say the same?