My given name is Julia Emons. Julia, while good for basic introductions to strangers, is boring. She is bland. She does not truly represent me. Julia is the product on the shelf at the grocery store that sits amongst thousands of others. They’re all the same. Different containers for the same product.

Julia is good for identifying who I am. A formality. Good for writing names on math tests, good for signing syllabuses. Julia gives her name to the cashier at a fast food restaurant. 

You can call me Julia, but I am not just Julia. 

My friends call me JJ. A chosen name. Still reminiscent enough of my given name, Julia. JJ feels like coming home. They slip into shoes with tattered soles. JJ is called across hallways, an arm waving in the air. They are who I am most, most loved and most worn.

My mother calls me Jules. It’s her way of saying I love you without words. Jules steps into my house at the end of the day, her name called out by her mother and her mother only. Jules is said by a smile asking how your day was while setting your spot at the dinner table. Jules hugs me when I’m shivering on a cold winter day.

My team calls me Ghouls. While my full name there is Julia Ghoulia, there is a bond between the team that understands the importance of a nickname. Ghouls is screamed from the sidelines, and cheered from the crowd. The coaches criticize and congratulate Ghouls, pushing her to be the best they can be. Ghouls falls to the ground, her mouthguard shining through a smile. Ghouls pushes me beyond what I can do, and I love being them. 

JJ. Jules. Ghouls. You can call me Julia, but I am not just Julia.