My parents have often told me that if I had been a boy, they would have named me Samuel. When it became apparent, however, that I would be a girl, Mom and Dad decided that the name Samantha just didn�t appeal to them, so I wasn�t named Sam after all.

But maybe I should have been.

For some bizarre reason, my �girl behavior� gene that is supposed to come with a pair of x-chromosomes is faulty. My desire to see �chick flicks� is nonexistent. Girl talk, to me, is a foreign concept. Trips to the mall are few and far between. Even in elementary school, I spent the majority of my friendship time with boys, completely ignorant of the �the opposite sex has cooties� elementary school mentality. In second grade, I had my hair cut boy-short, mostly to mimic one of my few female friends, but she grew hers out shortly afterwards. I kept mine until fifth grade. I hated dresses then, and only wore them to synagogue (and even then, it was only because Mom made me). I wore headbands horizontally around my head because, at some point, I had picked up the deluded notion that it made me look tougher. None of the other girls (and, in truth, full half of the boys) knew quite what to make of me.

But there comes a time in every child�s life when one must face facts. By sixth grade, being a girl wasn�t just a minor detail, it was a full-blown (and increasingly obvious) fact. It was then that I really began to see my femininity. Not just look at it, see it. I grew out my hair. I submitted to dresses (sometimes). I decorated my locker, began to pay heed to fashion, and lost my given name in favor of Kat. But I didn�t lose the name Sam. I merely became a sort of Scout Finch, acknowledging that there was, indeed, some worth in being a girl, but preferring boys all the same. And that was where I found my place. That was where I found myself.

That was where I remained. I do take fashion into account when buying clothes, but I think nothing of roaming high school hallways in a baggy, long-sleeved shirt when I have a mind to. I reserve skirts, hairdos, and makeup for special occasions. I joined stage crew earlier this year, and I truly came into my own, sawing wood and drilling holes alongside my theater friends, in a pair of paint-splattered men�s paint pants. Every morning, I chill before school with a group of buddies in which I am the lone female. I sometimes shock people by relapsing naturally into teenage boy vernacular in situations when it doesn�t really make a difference if I do.

Last year, in the Sunday school kindergarten class for which I assistant-teach, I met a boy who not only looked a little like me but also acted and reacted just like I used to at that age. Several people who hadn�t known me at that age failed to grasp why I understood him so well, and no matter how I tried to explain it, they simply couldn�t conceive of me ever acting in such a manner. A few people who did understand were just surprised that my little �clone� and I weren�t of the same sex. I wasn�t. In fact, it would have surprised me more if we had been, at least for a child that age. Now, I�m not so sure.

But I will be the first to admit that I am definitely not the stereotypical, or even just the typical, teenage girl. But I will also admit that I don�t care. I like who I have become, and I am proud to be who I am.

My other name is Sam, and it doesn�t stand for Samantha.

LAST YEAR: Pompous Circumstance

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Copyright 2006 by Ellen