I am Issa—the one and only. My parents named me Juan, which in English sounds like “one.” In Tagalog, “one” is isa, just like my name. Well, sort of—it’s Issa, pronounced, Ee-sah.
In my language, we don’t say “she” or “he,” we say siya, which can mean both, “she and he,” or “she/he.”
I wrote a short poem about myself:
I like to wear my hair long in school.
Friends say it looks very cool.
Teachers think it’s a bummer.
My hair is short in the summer.
I throw tea parties for my sister, May, and her doll, Genevieve. Genevieve is a rabbit, and sometimes May is a rabbit, too. But she just pretends to be a rabbit. I am not pretending to be Issa—that’s who I really am.
May is little and forgets that I call myself Issa. She goes, “Kuya Juan!”
I say, “Juan is our father.”
She says, “Okay, Issa.”
I have a best friend named Damian. He and I play with cars and trucks and marbles. Sometimes we get into fights over what to play next.
He says, “I liked you better when you were Juan!”
I say, “But that wasn’t really me.”
He says, “I don’t know what
you mean!”
I cry.
He says, “Boys don’t cry!”
“They don’t?” I ask, “Why not?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know why not.”
I stop crying.
Damian says, “I’m sorry. I like you just the same, Issa.”
We decide to play videogames next.
My Mama says I’m just confused.
I say, “No, I am not.”
May asks, “What’s confused?”
“Here,” I tell her. “I will show you.”
We write down different thoughts and different feelings on little cut out pieces of paper. We make circles and draw our emojis: SURPRISE! Poop.
We add colored confetti—why not?
We put all these words and colors in an empty mayonnaise jar, close the jar, and give it a shake.
Shake.
Shake.
“That’s your brain when you are confused,” I say.
“It’s all mixed up!” May laughs.
I pour the thoughts and feelings out of the jar. I take one blank piece of paper.
I write my name: Issa.
I put it in the jar.
“That’s me,” I say. “All the time.”
I wrote another poem. It goes:
I am Issa, the one and only.
Sometimes I get lonely.
But what’s the fuss?
That’s all of us.
My Papa’s name is Juan. He asks, “Why don’t you like being called Juan?”
“Because that’s you,” I say.
“Juan is a good name.”
“I know,” I tell him. “But Juan’s
not me.”
Papa sighs and scratches his head.
“Does that make you sad, Papa?”
“No,” he answers. “It just makes
me think.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“That I am so proud of my children,” he says, “May and Issa—the one and only.”
