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.”