I Used to be Called Julia
I used to be called Julia. Then it was Jules. Now it’s Elliot.
My friend said that we should just make it Jeliot because she was having trouble remembering.
That name is disgusting
You don’t get to decide my name
It’s hard having people change names and it’s hard having to explain it to people. Every time I explain it I’m forced to come out. I don’t want to tell people I’m trans by introduction. Doing that makes my chest contract, as if being open will hurt my physical body.
My mom wanted to know why I would rather have such a male name when I don’t identify with a gender. I had to explain.
Explanations are required of you when the people around you can’t push you into a box.
I’m not ambiguous. To other people, I present like a girl. But I’m not a girl. So I chose a name that will confuse people because it’s a “male” name for someone who looks more “female”.
I can’t be in the business school and say that my name in the system is wrong, it’s actually Elliot. There are professors there that will treat me completely differently knowing that I’m not Julia anymore.
Was I ever Julia? I distinctly remember being a very young kid and hating my name, but I don’t remember if I ever felt trans then.
I’m still figuring out this non binary transgender world.
People keep asking me about it, I wish they’d stop. I wish they’d let me live my life.
In my mind I’m still Julia, because that’s what I know. But that name also feels like an itchy skin I’m trying to peel and scrub off.
I’m Elliot.
I can feel a sunrise come up as I embrace that name.
Elliot.
I feel powerful, strong. The way I felt when I cut my hair short. Like I’m finally myself, not what someone else told me I was.
Elliot.
The name is a deep orange and red that moves thickly across the light yellow of Julia, covering it up slowly but surely.
I may not be able to be Elliot everywhere, but in the places it matters, I am me. I am Elliot.