“Ali-uh? Did I say that right?” the teacher asks. Her eyebrows rise along with the rest of her head to look around the room for me.
I whip up my hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “It’s Alia.”
“Oh, like the singer. Such a pretty name.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile, mentally rolling my eyes. Teachers butcher my name so much that it surprises me when they say it right. But it still bothers me. Especially when they group me with a mediocre, long-forgotten pop star.
I long for people to know my name, to know that it represents who I am.
I am a hard worker. Friends and family say that trait describes me best. Hard working creates a visual of a hunched-over worker in a gray, poorly-lit cubicle. But hardworking Alia celebrates with her basketball team after the last game of her undefeated season. She embraces her teary-eyed resident after laboring over his house on a mission trip. After performing her piano solo with more emotion than ever before, she beams at the crowd and absorbs the applause. Without my hard work, I would have passed by those life changing experiences.
But I want my experiences and actions to change others’ lives, too. I want to be a significant human being who contributes positively to the lives of those around her, and my name should represent that. But if I want people to know my name, I should make sure they know how to say it first.