the long way home [ h.s. ]

Six | 6

six | 6

☓

"Magdalene?" my mother asks as I plop down on a dining room chair.

She's home early.

"Yes?"

I've lost my habit of correcting her every time she calls me by my birth name; after years of "that's what I called you, so that's how I will keep calling you," my drive has left me.

In the Bible, Mary of Magdala is the first to witness the resurrected Jesus. Coming from two very devout Christian parents, the title was predetermined and settled upon long before my birth-- unfortunately.

It's not that I don't like having a Biblical name. I would say that I am quite spiritual and believe in things a lot greater than myself; because everyone's a small piece of the world, after all. Still, I struggle with faith all the time.

The name "Magdalene" wasn't a good thing to introduce myself as when I started kindergarten.

What a train wreck.

I showed up on the first of August in my nicest dress and black shiny shoes, with sweaty palms and a desire to fit in. First days are never good days for me.

And a girl came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Annie," with her orange freckles and sandy blonde hair and pink pants and Crayola-fingers.

I forced a smile on my face ( it was toothless, because I had just lost one of my uppers ) and held out my hand for her to shake.

"Hi, Annie."

The girl didn't touch me. She crossed her arms and drew her brows together, and I noticed the slash of green marker above her right.

But I didn't say anything.

"Well don't you gotta name, too?" she pushed, looking at me up and down and probably thinking that I was silly.

Not considering that my simple reply would lead to humiliation and scorn, I took a long breath and crossed my fingers against the bow of my dress.

"Magdalene."

A pause.

Annie gaped at me like I had ladybugs crawling out my ears.

The sounds of the room were heightened from the absence of words, and I listened to the crash of plastic trucks and the wailing of a fire engine and girls arguing over who got to play the mother of the baby doll.

And then she pried, "Maga-who?"

And I answered, "Magdalene. It's from the Bible."

"What's the Bible?" she asked, sitting down on the floor and crossing her legs.

I was about to answer her when a boy from behind said, "That's what religious people read."

And then one by one, people asked me questions, or talked behind my back in hushed tones. It was very strange to me because I knew that some of them had to be Christians, too; but either they didn't want others to know, or they didn't know it themselves.

My cheeks grew hot.

I felt different.

I didn't like feeling different.

I cried until the bells rang.

And I began to call myself Mary.

It was an easy alternative. If I went by a simpler name then no one could tease me for it. And that worked in school, for the next twelve years--