Joseph

                My parents named me Joseph. Like the father of Jesus in the Bible stories. My whole life I thought it was plain. Every time someone called me by name I pretended I was the guy sitting next to me, making fun of that “Joseph with the plain name”. Come to think of it, I never thought of Joseph as my name. To me it was just a word used so much around me that it’s been worn into familiarity. I don’t know what name would suit me, but if I heard it, I’m sure I’d recognize it. I’m pretty sure in my dreams my dream-friends address me by my true name, but I’ve never paid enough attention to remember.

                My Dad told me a couple years ago about why he called me Joseph. A bunch of years ago, before my older brother was born, my parents were trying to have a baby. They tried and tried and tried, but never could. Then they converted to Christianity, and finally conceived my brother. Two years later, I was an “unexpected blessing”. That’s why, he said, You were named Joseph. It means “to add” in the bible.

                Sometimes that’s how I feel. Like I’m extra. Everyone else here has a purpose, and they fit in together. And I don’t. I’m the extra puzzle piece that’s left after the picture’s completed. My dad’s story didn’t really make me feel better.

                I plan on getting past my name. Not letting it define me. If only I knew how.

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 I wrote the above stuff near the end of sophomore year. We were writing vignettes, in the style of the book "A House on Mango Street". It was one of the few I ended up liking. The other was this:

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I want to be

As determined as the falling rain

As simple as the paper thin sky

As far reaching as the crooked arms of lightning

As carefree as the clouds

One day I’ll stop

Hating who I am

Dwelling in the past

And live for tomorrow’s sky