I was given Allison. Allison is on rejection letters, acceptance letters, cast lists, team rosters, class roll call. Beginnings. The beginning of a night crying to Mom asking why I wasn’t good enough. Of a night of ice cream with Mom celebrating when I was. The beginning of long nights in a dark theatre and clammy hands backstage. Of a school year filled with homework and anxiety. Of a season of wins and losses and lost lacrosse balls and empty water bottles. 

Allison is beginnings. 

Allison is yelled from the kitchen when the dishwasher wasn’t loaded. Allison is called on the first day of school. Allison is a new face at an audition. She is not yet known by you, the person next to you or anybody. It’s what you call me when you don’t know me, don’t feel comfortable with me, don’t like me, or all of the above. 

Because of this, Allison is unfamiliar.  

So I named myself Ali. Ali is a smile. Ali is a dance. Ali is loud when she should be- and when she shouldn’t be. I used to spell it A-L-L-I-E because I liked how it looked. I remember first grade at a little desk with a Dixie cup filled with Fruity Cheerios. My friend Mia and I poured them on our desks. Moving each Cheerio at a time, we spelled our names. A-L-L-I-E ran out of Cheerios. M-I-A was able to eat the rest of her Cheerios, so A-L-I I became. 

Ali is more light-hearted. Allison is heavy. Simply writing out the two names, Ali is a letter to a friend and Allison is a contract. A contract that Ali probably didn’t read in its entirety. Allison just signs it anyway. 

Allison is a stream and I am an ocean. Allison waits when I am impulsive. Allison speaks when I want to shout. Allison is everything I am given. Ali is everything I am.