What's in a name?

“Psst…”

She said once or twice that she hated that.

“Psst…”

I never knew why, because it just seemed logical to do it.

“Psst…”

Lenore hated it when I tried to get her attention like that.

“Psst…”

But it worked; she would turn her head regardless, and it would always get the job done. Honestly, I just thought it was the most non-obtrusive ways to call her over, given the context.

“Psst…”

I mean, what was the alternative? Call her name out?

“Psst…”

People would stare at us like animals. We wouldn’t fit. We wouldn’t belong.

“Psst…”

It didn’t mean anything in and of itself. It was impossible to mispronounce, which was the important part. If I called her by name– her real name– then both of us would be subject to alienation.

“Psst…”

She mentioned once that she used to have a dog, and the only way of getting him to come over was be making hissing sounds like that.

“Psst…”

Nonetheless, he was still a dog.

“Psst…”

Both she and I were from someplace else; the same place in fact, but here, we were both out of place. We learned to keep out heads down though, and tried to fit in. No one stared at us anymore, and we lived like human-beings.

“Psst…”

But here, no one was named Lenore. Her name– beautiful as it was– stood out. People stared when they heard it.

“Psst…”

The stares were so painful. They didn’t always verbalize it, but they always said the same thing: ‘Psst! Just who are you? Why are you among us? Who do you think you are??’ Lenore and I both hated the stares. They made us feel like we weren’t welcome as part of the group. They made us feel like we were animals.

“Psst…”

I suppose calling her over like that made her feel like a dog. I understood why. But what was the alternative?

“Psst… Lenore, you’re a dog.”

“Lenore, they’re treating us like animals here.”

“Psst, Lenore, how can we be humans here?”