Andrea Chiang (they/them) // Contributor
A few years ago my best friend gifted me a custom leather bracelet. However, instead of being engraved with my name it was engraved with the words, “your name.” It was a reference to our inside joke as I had recently gotten into writing fanfiction, specifically stories that feature a reader self-insert as the lead known as (Y/N) or “your name.” We had a good laugh, and I appreciated the sentiment, but something about that gift resonated with me. The only way to describe it is that it was the first time I felt seen.
I think if it had my name, I wouldn’t feel the same. It’d feel like every other custom name merchandise you could find from Claire’s or tourist gift shops. It’s ironic to call them custom as if these items were unique and specifically made for you, when there’s a dozen other Jason magnets of the Niagara Falls on their parents’ fridge. The biggest irony is that a name isn’t even something tailored and chosen by you; it’s given to you and you form your identity around it, whether or not you want it. Knowing that, it’s probably why, for the longest time, I never felt at home with my name—it didn’t feel like mine. Whenever someone says my name, there is a sense of detachment, like an actor with their character, I consciously immerse myself and embody the name—the identity—of the role. Once the scene is over, I am relieved from that character. Once alone, I could go back to being myself: nameless, genderless, limitless.
A name has expectations built into it by those around you. Its meaning varies between people and settings. To other kids and classmates, it meant being friendly but intimidating, boyish but girly, and studious but clueless. To my parents and adults growing up, it meant being too loud, too quiet, too aggressive, too demure, too young to understand, to act your age. I found myself whiplashed between extremes of what I was and what I should be. Hardly did I ever stop to ask myself what it was I wanted to be. It gave me choice paralysis, made me socially anxious and caused me to be super self-conscious. It was never enough for anyone.
I found my solace in fiction through the stories I watched unfold on the images onscreen or the words on pages. It was a great escape because there I could tell myself a story of a place where I could be everything everyone wanted to be. I could be enough for them, but fiction isn’t enough for me. I wanted it to be real. So, I spent my life working myself to the bone to become a person I thought I was supposed to be. Someone they said I should be.
It took a decade and a global pandemic to unlearn that. Only after isolating myself from the pressures of outside interaction did I finally ask myself, “Who do I want to be?.” The truth is, I didn’t know, or maybe I was afraid to know. I threw myself into fiction once again which led me down a rabbit hole of fanfiction. In fanfiction, the lead could be anyone and whatever they went through could happen to everyone. In fanfiction, anyone could be the main character of the story, maybe I could be too if I was brave enough to write it. Maybe I could write my own story.
Out of pure impulse and passion, instead of just consuming content I decided to create it. It was the first time in my 20 years of living that I wrote fanfiction, but I did it. It was a short story for novel standards and a long-shot for internet forums. I thought it was a fun one-off, but it became a creative and therapeutic outlet. Writing my emotions in a second-person point of view gave me the distance to process them safely and the clarity to gain some perspective. It gave me introspection. It even gave me autonomy. It was my first act of self-actualization, because I finally did become someone I wanted to be: a storyteller.
It’s what led me here, writing this for the Capilano Courier, attending this school for a degree that was inspired by my love for stories.
So when I saw those words engraved on my bracelet, it meant more than the joke, the thought and the friendship. It was me.