A small piece of my mind

We all know our name. It's probably one of the first things we learn to say when we're old enough to speak. We learn a language, our age, who are our parents and what's our economy based on. Our morals and our country, our family, our friends. We grow and we experience life changing events. We mature, we grow old. Many times we forget who we are along the way, a lot of people have told me so. They appreciate who they are and what they do, and their accents and nationality.

And here I've been having a question which has challenged me greatly for almost three years: who the hell am I?

I know my name is Beatriz Martinez-Esparza. I know I'm Spanish. I know the name of my parents, my grandparents, my sister and most of my cousins and aunts, uncles. I know where I have lived for sixteen years. I know where I was born. I know how I was raised. I know my best friend, Keely, and my closest group of friends. I know the type of music that I like and I know that I am highly sensible, I am very annoying and I wear my heart on my sleeve. But who the hell am I really?

I hate my last name, the first one. First of all, because it's unnecessarily long, adding a stereotype of Spanish people that I hate. Our names are long because we also have our mother's, not because we use all of them. We're not all that long last named. I'd rather be called Bea, but I also hate my name. Bea means 'the one who gives eternal happiness'. I guess my parents liked the sarcasm.

I hate Spain. The people and the weather. I hate how nothing happens here and how everyone has an specific thought about us. I hate how my accent in English is stupified by my native language.

My family itself is composed of people who do not value anything I do. Most of it it's composed by military men and doctors and nurses. My cousin is about to become an anthropologist. My other cousin is about to be a lawyer. My sister is in public relations. I want to be a fucking musician and I;m studying communications and graphic designing. I'm the youngest in my entire family, so they do not take me seriously. In the middle of a crowded room in a wedding, a Christmas gathering or a plain party I'm alone.

San Fernando, Cadiz, has the remembrance of years of social awkwardness. I was a tomboy. I had a group of friends who were all boys. Girls played Barbie's and when I played with them, I used to make a plot line with a town, a mayor, and a mystery to solve like an Agatha Christie book. I realise now why they used to pick on me.

Five years ago, when I was in sixth grade, I was still a child at heart. So when I moved to Belgium, to a NATO base, I got picked on again, only this time more verbal, more physical. Harsher. And by the people of my own nationality. I was the weird kid. I didn't dress well. I was overweight, and I still am. I didn't have much boobs and I wasn't the prettiest girl out there. My first year was hell. My parents had no idea. The second year I gained two friends, who later on stabbed me repeatedly in the back. I blamed myself. One of those friends has apologized just barely seven weeks ago. The other has never answered my fb messages back. Third year was the best. I met my best friend, Keely. I'd give my life for her in a heartbeat.

I began my taste for music with Tokio Hotel, an emo phase which turned into gothic which turned into a mix of everything. I discovered my love for My Chemical Romance. Then I discovered punk. And the 80's. Vinyl's and the classical style to it. Now my style is pretty ecclectic. I listen to both Justin Bieber and Pierce the Veil. I wish to say I'm open minded , but everyone has prejudges and I have a few too.

Now, back in Spain, I realise just how annoying I am. I like to talk about things that only interests me, which makes me egoistical and egocentric. I take everything at heart and cry very easily. And I am very passionate about the things I like, which are a lot. My group of friends is divided now, and I left them. I am coffessing that I never liked them. I guess I just wanted to feel inside the crowd just for a moment.

My sister came in the other day and told me why was I back again like this. And I asked her what she was talking about. She ranted about how I would wear too much black and spend the days at home, reading, writing and listening to heavy music. Then I changed and went out, to parties and dressed differently, with almost no black and only listened to music that she liked. That people in general liked. And now I'm back to the first. She asked what changed, and I told her that nothing changed.

She told me I wasn't human because I liked to be with the 30 percent of people who didn't talk shit about their friends on their backs, who didn't go to parties and who liked to read instead of going out. She told me that I wasn't normal. That I didn't know what friendship was and that I'd end up alone because I wasn't on the fights my "friends" had. I never felt so strongly against an opinion. Now I know why exactly I hate my sister.

But when I sat on the stairs, waiting for Carmen, the only non-superficial friend I have on Spain, I thought: who am I, then? If I'm not the goth girl, or the preppy girl, or the classic rock girl, who am I?

Of course, I couldn't randomly burst into a baritone song, dress like Jean Valjean and scream out a number to a judge and know irrevocably who I am in a heartbeat. I am no Jean Valjean, no prisioner 62401. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I was, or who I will be. And I'm scared as hell because I want to know.

My best friend told me once that, when I left SHAPE, there was a gaping hole at the school. That people are asking who I am when they mention me. That I am a person to be remembered. And now I ask myself, who do they remember? Am I really as nice as they make the others think I am? Why do they even like me when I hate myself so much? Why does Keely want to be my best friend? Why does my sister say those things? Why are people so superficial? Why does it always have to be black or white for my parents? Why do I have to change? Why can't I be what I want to be, instead of what you want me to be? Why can't I be an angsty teenager instead of the adult my father screams at me to be?

Who am I? I have no fucking idea. And I don't know if I'll ever know. I'm no one to be remembered. I'm that girl on Mibba who you talked to in a while and later forgot about. I'm the author of that story that looked so great but disappointed you with the Mary Sue character. I'm that girl who annoyed you about the updates. I'm no Micah. I'm no May. I'm no Katie and I'm no Indigo.Umbrella.. I won't leave a mark. I won't make you think hard. I'm nothing especial. I wish people would stop saying so.

Don't say I'm especial. Don't say I'm pretty. Don't say things that make you a liar. I don't like liars--another thing to add, I'm a hypocrite--and you don't like me either. You think you do, but it'll wash away. I should not be remembered. I cause pain wherever I go. I leave bad marks. And they fade away soon. I wish I was someone. I wish I was a writer. I wish I was a musician. I wish I could do something to be remembered. I'm no hero. I'm no writer. I'm no musician.

And I'm no someone.
January 19th, 2013 at 07:29pm