other bits of blog

Saturday, November 7, 2009

my identity

I crumple up another piece of paper, stained with ink. Reaching into my drawer, I pull out another, fresh, crisp sheet of normal lined paper, that's it. It speaks to me. Somehow, I know what to do, what to write. The pen on my desk jumps into my hand. Together we write, we speak through thoughts and memories. I write my own story.

Identity..getting started
She was Girl. She was always Girl. Even the birth certificate she had been left with had no name. Her orphanage was not unkind, they just never named her.
The girl loved the name Izabel. She had tried several times to get the other children in the orphanage to call her that. Every attempt failed. It was who she was. Girl. Just Girl.

The bed creaked and moaned. It really wasn’t a bed. It was just some cloth covering hard metal springs. These “beds” were very uncomfortable, and lacked pillows, but the orphanage didn’t have the money for proper beds. She stepped out and the floor creaked again.
The year was 1987, the date December 17th. It was 12:00. All was quiet.

I reached out for bread in the kitchen. I was very hungry, and the trip would take time without a car or train. I needed food.
My bag was packed with the four things that were in my possession: my copy of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” which I had read 20 times, a whistle, the slip of paper with my date of birth written in a scrawl with black ink, and this little book, with which I will write an account of my journey to Boston, from this little orphanage in Montreal. My old and small home. But a home to me no more.
I was told by the director, called Mother Ann, that I had a sister somewhere in Boston. Why my parents kept my younger sister and not me haunted my thoughts. Why not me? Why so far away? Was there something wrong with me? I later learned that there was something different about me. But you should learn that later, as I did.
Her name was Emerald, Mother Ann told me. Emi [Ee-m-ee], that was what I was sure I would call her when my parents came to find me. But they never came. Emi haunted my dreams until she became just a shadow of hope in my mind. I would think, Issy [I-zz-ee] and Emi, Issy and Emi, Issy and Emi.
I want to be Isabelle. I will call myself Isabelle. But truly, I have no name. You must be thinking that I have some kind of name, surely my parents named me. As I told you before, they did not. I have no identity, nothing to tell my friend who I am. I have nothing. Isabelle is what I want, though, my other comfort every night is to whisper that name to myself. It sounds like the lullaby my mother never sang to me. I miss having a mother. The mother I never knew.

Next, I took apples. They were mushy and mealy, but I would need energy until I found a place to work for money. With my sack about half full, I slipped out of the kitchen and into the hall. At the end of the hall was the door. The door to a new life. A new name. The door that would lead me to my sister and my parents who I loved so much in my mind. I gratefully stepped through that door, into the quiet streets of Montreal, where not even a dog barked. Then and there, my new life had begun.
My pack seemed heavy now. I had never been outside of my orphanage at night. I lived in a city. Anything could happen. I had realized that after the lock on the door clicked. After that, a dog barked. It sounded like a wolf howling to the moon on a night when the sky was on fire. Then a siren sounded. They were coming for me! The police knew! I was caught. It was all over. I would never see Emy. I tasted salt. The tears brought on my doubts. I was scared that this would never work. How could I get to Boston from here? My parents would probably shun me. After all, hadn’t they put me in an orphanage so far away and never given me a name? Suddenly, I wanted to be back in the cold, drafty room snuggled into the threadbare covers on a firm bed. I didn’t care. I wanted to go back.
Then reason came to me. Hadn’t I dreamed about this all my life? Didn’t I want to see Emerald? My face set with a firm courageousness and I wiped away my tears. I would go.

I would blog.


  1. Oh, my, what a young, amazing, author!
    --Maia Shshana (me...aka COMMENT, please!)

  2. thankyouthankyouthaknyouthankyouthankyouyoucommented!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  3. I might be Girl/Izabel; maybe I am. But I have been lucky.