“I want to be treasured,” I said. “I want to be someone’s one and only.”

Freya seemed taken aback by my vehement response. I couldn’t blame her. Given my lack of romantic experience and prospects, it was surprising that I’d given the question previous thought. But I had. I’d given it a lot of thought.

Despite my lack of partners and sexual interest, I was still consumed by romantic notions. I’ll admit I fantasized about Freya. And, sometimes, about Max. My attraction was aesthetic (I wanted to drink in their beauty) and sensual (I longed to cuddle and hold Freya; to be held and cuddled by Max). One day, I might develop sexual arousal, but what I wanted, now, was a significant other, someone who would adore me, worship me, and possess me.

I’d had to share all my life. I was done with it.

8

In June, I graduated from high school. The ceremony was held in the school gym, decorated with crepe paper streamers and rosettes in our school colors, navy and gold. My entire family was in attendance. From my vantage point on the stage, I could see them: my pregnant mother; my dad; Gwen and her lover Janine; Vik; and my brothers, Leonard and Wayne, filling an entire row of folding chairs. My heart pounded with dread as I waited to receive my diploma. When my turn came, I would have to walk across the stage, shake hands with Principal Graph and pose for a photo. I hoped my entourage wouldn’t clap too loudly, whistle, or cheer, thus drawing attention to their numbers. I felt guilty for being ashamed of them, but I was.

And then there was the issue of my name. My full name that would be announced as I crossed the stage to receive my diploma. As the story goes, the precise moment I slid from my mother’s womb into the tepid paddling pool set up in our cluttered living room, a tiny blue bird had alighted on the windowsill.

“Look.” My mom pointed at it with a trembling hand.

My father saw it, too. “Is it a robin? A sparrow?”

If only.

The doula placed my slippery, squirming body on my mother’s chest.

“It’s a swallow,” she said. “I’ve never seen one perch on a windowsill before. They usually prefer wires or fences.”

Oh, the poignancy! They knew. They just knew. My parents considered themselves artistic, spiritual beings. They convinced themselves that calling me after this little bird was poetic, when really, it was just literal. And kind of lazy.

As a kid, I liked my name. Being named for a bird was unique. I read up on swallows, focusing on their positive attributes like their streamlined shape and their ability to fly all the way to Mexico in the winters. I ignored less-appealing factoids like the property damage caused by their habit of pooping off the edge of the mud nests they built on the side of homes and barns. (Really, this was a sign of a very clean bird, but I still didn’t like to focus on it.) Bird imagery became a personal theme, its form appliqued onto my lunch box, my backpack, and the sleeve of my denim jacket.