That Name They Gave Me: When Words Became Walls (And How I Climbed Them)
Remember that specific chill? Not the winter kind, but the one that creeps up your spine in a crowded hallway, suddenly feeling utterly alone. That was me, around age thirteen, navigating the minefield that middle school can sometimes be. And then it happened. The bullies came up with a name for me. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t original, honestly. But it landed like a punch, etching itself onto my school days.
It started subtly. A whisper behind cupped hands as I walked to math class. A snicker echoing from a group clustered by the lockers when I fumbled my books. My name – the one my parents gave me, the one I answered to – seemed to vanish. In its place was their word. A word seemingly plucked from nowhere, maybe because of my slightly too-short jeans that year, maybe because I tripped spectacularly in gym class once. The why didn’t really matter. What mattered was the how. How that name became a weapon.
“You know,” they’d call out in the cafeteria, loud enough for nearby tables to hear, “going for a walk, Stubby?” Laughter followed. Or in the library, pretending to struggle: “Hey Stubby, can you even reach that top shelf?” My cheeks would burn. My throat would tighten. I’d stare at my shoes, the worn tile floor, anything but their smirking faces. That name – let’s call it “Stubby” for the story – became my unwanted shadow. It wasn’t just the word itself; it was the power they wielded by using it. They defined me, in their narrow, cruel way, and broadcast it for others to hear. It felt like being trapped inside a box labeled with their mocking graffiti.
The worst part wasn’t always the direct confrontation. It was the constant, low-grade dread. Would they say it today? Who else might start using it? Would I walk into homeroom and feel the weight of silent stares, knowing they knew? It chipped away at my confidence. I started taking the longer route to avoid certain hallways. I hesitated before raising my hand in class, worried any attention might trigger them. That silly, meaningless nickname became a wall I built around myself, brick by anxious brick.
But here’s the thing about walls: sometimes, you find a crack. Mine came unexpectedly, not through some grand confrontation, but through a quiet moment of internal defiance. I was doodling in my notebook during a particularly boring history lecture, not really paying attention. I absentmindedly wrote my real name. Then, almost without thinking, I wrote their name for me right beside it. “Stubby.” I stared at the two words side by side on the page.
And something shifted. Seeing it there, written in my handwriting, on my paper, it suddenly looked… smaller. Less powerful. It was just ink. It was just a combination of sounds they’d strung together. It wasn’t me. They hadn’t cracked some secret code about who I was. They’d just thrown mud, hoping it would stick.
I didn’t magically become fearless overnight. The name still stung when I heard it. The anxiety didn’t vanish. But that small realization planted a seed. I started consciously reminding myself: “This is their noise. It’s not my truth.” I focused harder on the things I did enjoy – losing myself in library books, working on my (terrible) comic strips, the easy camaraderie I had with my two close friends who never once used that awful name. I found tiny moments of strength: looking directly at one of them when they muttered it, just for a split second longer than felt comfortable, before walking away. Not reacting with tears, even when I felt them prickle. Just… walking. Owning my space.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the wall began to crumble. Not because they stopped – they didn’t, for a long while. But because I stopped handing them the bricks. I stopped believing the name defined my worth. I started rebuilding my sense of self despite the noise.
Looking back now, years later, the memory of that name carries a different weight. It’s not the sharp sting of humiliation anymore. It’s more like an old scar – a reminder of a painful season, but also a testament to resilience. Those bullies did come up with a name for me. They tried to pin me down with it. But they didn’t get to decide what it meant, or who I became because of it.
That’s the lesson that echoes far beyond those locker-lined hallways: People will try to label you. Sometimes out of cruelty, sometimes thoughtlessness. They’ll throw words your way hoping they’ll land and shape you. But here’s the secret they don’t understand: The power of those words lives only in the meaning you give them. You hold the dictionary to your own life. You get to define the chapters, the titles, the narrative arc.
That name they gave me? It’s just a footnote now in my much larger story. A story I’m still writing, one resilient word at a time. The bullies may have named a moment, but they never got to name me. That power, I learned the hard way, was always mine to reclaim. And reclaim it, I did.
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