Names, dates, birthdays

They don't know my name. I keep it hidden between the folds of my skirt. They told me I had to wear it but they don't like that they can't see my legs anymore. I keep it hidden in the bows holding my pigtails together. They don't know my name. I'm my father's daughter, my brother's sister, my grandpa's granddaughter and the boy's you know from middle school friend. They don't know my name. I'm the girl they man spread next to on the bus even though there are plenty more empty seats. I'm the girl they yell after when she's just trying to go to school. I'm eleven and he's in his sixties yet he sticks his head out the window of the van and makes obscene noises and moves his tongue around. They don't know my name. She's that feminist threatening our glorious system. As if one measly girl that tears up when she talks about equality could topple the irresistible wall they sit on and spit at our heads. Some girls don't wipe it off and they sigh. "They love us. You're being ridiculous. Only some men spit from up there.", yet I see my father and he's laughing. He knows my name. He says he loves me but he called that woman that was driving too slow in front of him a whore. We sit out on the balcony and he lights a cigar. I hug my knees to my chest and he says the hair on my legs is disgusting. I say if he doesn't like leg hair he should shave. He says men don't have to. I scoff. He knows my name. There is a girl sitting behind me, tapping her pen against the table. She tells me she is from a different part of the country. In line at the cinema I tell a girl I like her outfit. Next time I go there a girl says she likes my makeup. They know my name. My mother gave me my name. She is driving and telling me boys don't like me because I'm mean. I fix my hair in the mirror. A boy approaches me. He doesn't ask me my name and I don't ask his, but the words of my mother echo under my skin. My brain is glittery pink and strawberry flavored. I let him spit at me and smile dumbly. He will never know my name.