The Feel of My Deadname
An invented character that meant something to me
Imagine you’re a nobody actor who gets really ridiculously famous for playing one character, but then no one knows your real name, only the character, no matter how hard you do or don’t try to correct them.
It’s tempting and easy and lucrative not to correct them every single time, and the thing is, you’re not even sure it’s entirely true to say the character isn’t at least a part of you.
Everywhere you go, you will get called the name of this character that meant something to you, a character that you built from scratch, who you lived through so much alongside while wearing their skin, a character that you used to crawl out of nowhere into a place where you would never have to worry about paying rent or being loved, a character that took you places.
Even if they know that’s not really you, they’ll still want you to pretend just this once, for old time’s sake.
Say that one line; their favorite line. You know, the one about being a woman?
You don’t cringe because you hate the character; you loved that character; she was more complicated than anyone might realize to look at her, and you built every layer, studying what everyone expected, even adding a secret twist or two.
You’re proud of the performance that was so good, you forgot you were acting; you were a method actor, after all.
You cringe because it’s not your name; as much as you loved the character, it was never you, not completely; it was a borrowed you that felt good sometimes.
The trouble with just living as the character is that you can choose how you say her words, maybe even shift how she feels when you play the part, but you can never change that someone else wrote the script for her.
She’ll always be limited by a story, an ending, that was already written.
Her credits were rolling while the bones in your face melted together and squared off in the mirror from staring too long while tired and floating.
Her minutes have been numbered for well over half her life now.
That name may be on my birth certificate, but it’s not my real name.
It’s not the first name I ever remember accepting as mine, and it won’t be the name on my grave.
It’s a name that was born for a holiday photo op.
I painted it on like lipstick and eye shadow for those who needed to see that to feel loved, believing them when they said it didn’t make me look like a circus performer, ignoring the evidence in the mirror.
I love the idea of it, but it’s not real.
Like makeup, sometimes it can linger, reminding you, even after you try your hardest to wash it off.
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