The Name of Shame

What’s in a name? Not much, unless you have the worst imaginable one. Why couldn’t I have been a Mark, Thomas, Adam, or John? Or maybe Michael, Ricky, or Bob? Hell, I’d settle for Dick, in lieu of Richard. Or even Lucifer, despite the ghastly connotations involved. But that’s neither here nor there.

My father’s poor upbringing led to him making countless bad choices early on, one of which was joining an organization that poisoned his mind and corrupted his views on humanity. Since my mother died while giving birth to me, my name ultimately became my father’s decision alone. At the time, he was waist-deep with the wrong people, engaged in various immoral activities, preying on people he and his cult deemed inferior to themselves. It would’ve been one thing for him to endure the consequences, but when he dragged me into the pit, he ruined two lives. Regrettably, it took me years to realize how irreparable the damage would be.

The assaults came early in middle school. First, it was playful teasing, then light intimidation. This was followed by other children keeping their distance from me altogether. Eventually, just the sound of my name brought out the worst in others. As long as I was young and impressionable, the abyss I stared into eventually gazed back at me. But high school turned out to be the last straw.

When Robbie Miles, a well-known bully, made fun of my name, prompting laughs from everyone in the cafeteria, I saw red. Every which way. Up, down, left, right. The ensuing scuffle resulted in his broken, bloody nose, and my suspension from school for two weeks. But I no longer cared.

I wasn’t going to stand being called The Führer, no matter how fitting he thought it’d be.