Allow me to introduce myself

It is possible that one day, anyone who’s ever known me – myself included – will be gone from this place. If that happens, what evidence will I leave behind to prove that I existed? I hope it’s not the pile of receipts from my favorite takeout places, they never got my name right: Vida (Yellow Sub, et al.); Pita (Pizza Shuttle, et al.); Beetus (I swear I’m not making these up). If that pile of receipts was the only remaining piece of evidence, whoever read them would learn that I had an irrational disdain for vegetables, I relished cream cheese on pizza, and I often forgot to take the lunch I packed to work.

 I hope the evidence isn’t an old voicemail on an ex-boyfriend’s answering machine, because I consciously mispronounced my name: Bita (\ BEE-duh \). Like other first-generation Americans, I learned that a palatably-white name was the first prerequisite to acceptance. If that archived clip of audio was the only remaining piece of evidence, whoever listened to it would recognize that I ceded my identity for the sake of fitting in. They would hear nothing about how much I enjoyed drawing, or that I preferred Nickelodeon to MTV, or that I was lying when I said I didn’t believe in love.

 I hope that the evidence is a recording from my 32nd birthday party. Whoever watched the video would see that my parents and my brother were there, and would hear them pronounce my name the Iranian way: Bita (\bee-TAH\). Whoever saw the video would watch me open the gift from my husband and our kids: a new sketchbook and a pack of Copic markers, my favorite. If this video was the only remaining piece of evidence, whoever watched it would see that we ordered cream-cheese-and-pepperoni pizzas that night. They’d witness me realize that all it took for me to fit in was to be myself.