My friends cried when they left home. I wept tears of joy. My friends couldn’t wait to go home. I couldn’t wait to leave. That is the funny thing about situations; every person has a different one. Every unique one leads to different feelings, different endings. My two siblings were like my friends. Home was a place to which they had always wanted to return. I dread every plane ride back. Every ride home I have to tear down the walls I built between who I was, and who I am. Every ride back I have to remind myself of the person I have become, of the person I wanted to be. The place I left behind marks who I used to be, who I grew from, and the starting point of my freedom. Every time I hear the name of my homeland called out, a part of me is set back, like a clock, to zero.

Leaving is a chance to remake your personality. A chance to be the person you have always wanted to be. However, leaving is also to leave yourself open to heartache and misery. I left thinking I was strong enough to take on what the world had to throw at me. Sometimes I am strong enough. Other times, I am not. This started as one of those times.

Here I do not have an identity. I am viewed as an extension of the place I left. I do not receive questions about my childhood, my high school, or who I was before coming here. For that, I am only thankful of the latter. I only receive questions about what was my home. I am part of a statistic.

Now, I forget what my real name is. I forget I have one. I forget there was once a part of me that was not tied to my homeland. When introducing myself to others, I have to pause before telling them my first name. I feel pressure to give the nickname I have been labeled with. My first name is not a bad one. It is simply not the one that comes to mind when my classmate’s look at me. I cannot determine if the nickname my classmates used would be the one the teachers know, or if I should put the name on my birth certificate in the heading at the top of the page. I find myself wanting to put down the name my family calls me, but still wondering if I should affirm others beliefs about who I am and permanently change my name to fit their idea of me. Each time that thought arises, I cannot bring myself to do it. I keep hoping, wishing, yearning, that some day I will stand up and shout “that is not my name”. I look inside myself and see a lack of strength, a willingness to avoid the conflict. I find myself submitting to the people around me, and to their preconceived notions of my past, my present, and my future.

I have had many nicknames in my life. Some have cut deeper than others. When we are younger, names have a way of defining who we are and who our friends become. If you are marked as “nerdy”, you hang out with one group of people. If you are “pretty” you get a different group. If you are “fat,” “popular,” “athletic,” “artsy,” or “dorky,” you get put in different groups. The social stratification is based on names and how much power people give to those names. A nickname can often make or break a person. It defines a person; it is the first impression we learn about one another. Getting on the plane to leave, I knew I would get some nicknames here; it is simply the nature of having friends and living in a community. I never knew that my home would follow me and determine my nickname in this place, where I am so far from everything I have ever known. I knew my old nicknames would not follow me on the plane like baggage. I knew that the new students I interacted with would not have the same creativity as those I dealt with in the past. What I could not predict was that the new nickname would cut far deeper than any before. I never thought I would allow names to define me so completely to others. To affect me as much as I saw them affecting kids when I was younger.

Growing up my mother would not allow me to tell people I was Puerto Rican. She was afraid that I would be told the only reason I was successful was because of my Hispanic heritage. She was afraid of what nicknames people would give me. She was afraid of what people would tell me. She was afraid that because of my Hispanic genes people would say I did not deserve everything I earned. She was afraid that, much like black Americans or immigrants fear, I would be considered a statistic. Or a way to meet a genetic quota. That I was accepted just to improve the school's ethnic diversity. She was afraid I would have to live with the same prejudices she grew up with. What my mother failed to realize was that when she decided to follow my father to Alaska and raise her children there, her very fears would come true in a very different manner.

I am from the most northern part of the United States. I am an American. I was born here. I can be president. I can hold office. I have the same rights. I have the same opportunities. I have the same disadvantages. I face the same struggles. I pay the same taxes. I fight for the same jobs. I would fight for the same country. However, that is not how it looks to people that are from what Alaskans colloquially call the “Lower 48.” I am constantly, obsessively, and critically told that the only reason I was accepted to schools, given scholarships, or been successful is because I come from an area that is desired by administrators and alumni. I have been told that I am simply a way to meet a geographical quota. That I am just a statistic. That is the irony though is it not? I am not what my mother feared. I am not a genetic statistic. No, I am a geographical statistic now. I have been told that I am not worthy of the successes I have had, or that I will have. I thought leaving Alaska would bring me joy. What I did not realize is that by leaving, I left myself open to all of the animosity that coming from a “different” place would generate.

I am in my second semester of college at a school in the south. I am one of two Alaskans. I am one of the lucky ones that worked hard enough to make it out of my state. I was lucky enough to make the right grades. I was lucky enough to get the right test scores. I was lucky enough to be a good writer. I was lucky enough to do community service. I was lucky enough to be good at extracurricular activities. However, lucky was something I was never called before stepping foot on this campus. That is how I am seen now, though. I am seen as the charity case that allows our school to get more diversity in the sense of geography. I am not seen as a person that can add to the knowledge or experience of those I am around. I am part of a statistic.

Much like an immigrant, I do not feel as if I will ever fit in or be understood. I am a second-semester student, I am forced to remember the names of my classmates and where they are from, or suffer the risk of insulting them. I am not given the same courtesy. The power that lends itself to the single word nature of my nickname shadows the necessity of remembering my full name. The walls I have built permit me to forgive the ignorance of those around me and understand the need to the tear down of my accomplishments. I look in the mirror and I can don't see an average, female, white, Alaskan student that on paper looks exactly like all the rest. The walls have taught me that I am more than the place that has branded me. That I am more than the box that is checked next to the state I come from. That from now on I can choose what that name means, rather than letting those around me choose the definition of the name for me.

I am walking down the street and I hear someone calling, “Nicole…. (louder) Nicole!…. ALASKA!” It isn’t until my homeland is called out that I finally turn my head, recognizing myself in the name they are calling. I left Alaska to become Alaska.