Carrico - Yoga Journals Yoga Basics: The Essential Beginners Guide to Yoga for a Lifetime of Health and Fitness

Last year my mother and I moved to Sunnyville, Texas.

It was the eighth time wed moved in the past four years.

Needless to say, I was all the way over unpacking my suitcases every few months.

But as sucky as the process of moving was, I never minded leaving one city behind for another.

What I loved most was the thrill of choosing a new identity in every new place. It was like a fresh start!

I also really liked meeting new people. Of course, Mom warned me not to get attached. So, I was careful about that. I kept people at a distance, and viewed them as acquaintances instead of friends.

So, while packing a ton of suitcases is not fun, the adrenaline rush of relocating more than made up for the nightmare of packing.

Anyhow, Ill bring you into the story three days after wed moved to Sunnyville.

That morning, while I put on my makeup in preparation for my first day as a senior at Sunnyville High, Mom yelled that breakfast was ready.

I didnt bother yelling back because I hated yelling. I just kept putting on makeup and trying to decide what I wanted my name to be that semester.

Theres an art to choosing the right name. A name tells you who a person is before a word comes out of their mouth. For example, if you introduce yourself as Kelli, people will assume youre bubbly and fun and will instinctively feel compelled to befriend you.

But if you introduce yourself as Beatrice people will assume you spend your Friday nights with your grandmother watching reruns of Family Matters on a couch that smells like mothballs and cat puke and theyll instinctively feel repelled by you.

See how important a name is? Its basically everything .

That morning, I decided I wanted to be Libby.

Libby was playful, fun, and carefree yet thoughtful. Libby was the girl next door who every guy on the street had a secret crush on. She was also the sort of girl who got what she wanted, and I wanted to be her for at least the next three months.

So, right then and there, I became Libby.

Well, until my mom ruined the moment.

Amanda, my mother shouted. Get your butt down here.

That was my real name: Amanda Grace Hollister.

I hated it because it made me sound like a real estate agent from a small town, the type whose picture was plastered on every cheap billboard and bus stop bench in sight. It also made me sound like I had a bad perm and a penchant for turquoise eye shadow.

Thank God Mom banned me from using my real name.

Wherever we moved, shed find a way to snag the appropriate IDs and for the past four years, wed managed to assume all kinds of identities without anyone suspecting a thing.

I checked my reflection in the mirror. My lipstick was perfect and my eyes were just smoky enough for the first day of school; cute with a hint of drama, but not auditioning for The Bachelor dramatic.

Satisfied, I grabbed my backpack and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Mom stood over the kitchen sink holding a huge mug of coffee. It was almost as big as her fro. She stared out of the kitchen window.

I glanced at the window and then eyed my alleged breakfast where it sat on the counter- a banana. This was moms polite way of telling me Id gained weight.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the banana and shoved it into one of the pockets on the outside of my bookbag.

I decided on a name, I said.

About time, Mom replied, bringing the huge mug of coffee to her lips and taking a sip.

Libby. Short for Olivia, I said.

She nodded, her gaze still on the window. That suits you.

I turned this reply over in my mind, wondering if it meant I was as cute as the name Libby or if it meant Id chosen a silly name.

I knew I wasnt an all-out uggo, but I wasnt exactly the epitome of self-esteem when it came to my looks.

When I was younger, before I knew how the world worked, I used to wish I looked exactly like Mom.

She was beautiful. Model-thin with flawless chocolate skin and cheekbones so high they made Scarlett Johanssons look low; my mom couldve easily found a place on the runways of Paris and Milan.

But the older I got, the more I noticed how differently people treated us. Especially in the southern states.

When we went to posh stores to buy Moms LBDs (little black dresses for her nights out), she was always followed by some over-zealous sales associate, and it wasnt because the sales clerk was incredibly helpful. It was because the clerk was sure a black woman couldnt afford to shop in an expensive store.

On the other hand, when I went to those same boutiques with acquaintances from school, no one followed us around. Instead, we were offered bottles of water and orange juice. We were smiled at and told that if we needed anything, we should just say the word.

It took a hot minute for me to realize that the difference in the way I was treated when I was with Mom and when I was with my acquaintances all boiled down to skin color.

While Mom may have been drop dead gorgeous, the color of her skin made her dead wrong to a lot of people. On the other hand, my skin, which was as pale as my Irish-American fathers, made me acceptable to those very same people.

I wasnt sure how I felt about this. I hated seeing my mom mistreated. And I still wished I looked like her, but a small part of me was grateful that I could hide behind my skin. And that right there, made me feel even guiltier.

Just remember your official alias is Elizabeth, Mom said. Thats the name on your drivers license and the name I used to sign you up for school. So Libby will have to be a nickname. Next time dont take so long to pick a name.

Okay.

Are you sure you dont want me to drop you off? Mom asked, her gaze still on the window. I followed her line of vision to check out what she was staring at.