April,
You are a part of me. Ten years ahead of me; we share the same eyes, nose, and freckles that fall in the same constellation. You named me after a woman who made art of her trauma and had a gift of writing, which is why I believe I can articulate myself similarly. Your name symbolizes blossoming in the spring, new beginnings. You don’t like it.
It pains me to know the same person is giving away the name that connects us— Kapoor, a traditional Punjabi emblem. It carries a story of a man who took advantage of a young woman who might have had more to live for, but sacrificed her opportunities to be a mother. Our mother, a woman seen as unworthy of committing to. A painful story, but one you cannot run away from. Painful love is not always romantic.
We’re the only ones in our Mexican matriarchy with a foreign last name. You want to take the last name of a man who does not want to marry you. Your child’s father. Despite his rejection, you want to take it without the promise of commitment. This has nothing to do with tradition, but rather a continuation of the cycle of women in our family growing complacent under the abuse and mistreatment from the men they give themselves to. Divorced, neglected, unmarried with children, and uneducated not because they do not want to learn but because they will not accept help from their community.
You will terminate the matriarchy. Give the power to the same men who take advantage of our capacity to be nurturing and sacrificial due to expectations that are pushed onto us. As the youngest, I watch powerful women fall at the feet of men. Men who undermine and abuse my women by taking away their independence and ability to defend themselves. I know powerful, inspirational women, but still I can’t help but root for the underdog. The underdog who I love, even if it hurts me. You.
I see you are tired, but I also see the old you in your dark, almond-shaped eyes. The sister who would draw art on walls and sing out loud to Amy Winehouse. The sister who would speak her mind, unfiltered and fearless. I looked up to you with your short bob—because long hair was never your thing—and that old band tee, perfectly matched with your scuffed Converse. I miss you.
I feel guilty for prioritizing myself. Am I selfish? I could run away, bear a child, and to our family, that would be seen as a greater accomplishment than any degree I am working so hard to obtain. Even if the child had my last name.
“Maya, I am so exhausted,” you whine. “Nobody helps me with the baby, and it’s not like I can even trust his dad to watch him.” You rant about how he ignores your needs and cries for help, then in the same breath, tell me you want to take his last name. Your words remind me of the women we know who fell into cycles of single motherhood. Like our mother who had to be a single-parent and reduce her identity to being just a caretaker.
“It’s not just his name, it’s my son’s last name,” you explain. The son you had with this man who failed to love all the parts of you, especially the parts you hate and need him to love. The child you birthed while I waited, exhausted, outside the delivery room. You have let men pick and choose what they like about you. Kapoor, like my love, is free and unconditional. Do you want to change to fit into others’ expectations? Take a Spanish last name? This isn’t about pushing an Anglo-Saxon agenda or determining marriage as a solution to the lack of commitment. It’s about seeing yourself outside the gaze of men.
It is not easy being the first daughter of an immigrant family. You’ve had to figure out so much on your own. I have empathy for you, but understand your decisions hurt me.
Maybe this is the only way you will bloom, April. Maybe this is the path to becoming a new woman, the start of a new chapter, with a Spanish new name. I fear I will have to see this new woman from afar. I cannot stand to be hurt by your poor decisions anymore.
I knew a woman so independent, who struggled to be confident in what she wanted. A woman who was sabotaged and fell victim to the generational trauma that consumes our family. I hope you break through and find the strength to do better for yourself, even if I am not there to watch it.
Maya Kapoor is a reflective writer from Southern California, set to graduate from UC Santa Barbara with a Bachelor’s in Sociology. Her writing career began with publications through the university, and she is currently working on a series of reflective narratives for the Raab Fellowship Program. As a first-generation Mexican-Punjabi woman, Maya is passionate about voicing the experiences within underrepresented communities through her writing and advocacy. Outside of her writing life, she enjoys conducting research, dancing, and martial arts.
Stories Matters is a mentoring program founded by best-selling author and award-winning documentarian Leslie Zemeckis. Co-sponsored by the Santa Barbara International Film Festival (SBIFF) and ENTITY Mag, the writing program focuses on craft and confidence. Guest professional female authors join weekly, mentoring the next generation of female storytellers. A six-week intensive challenges every writer to work on an 800-word story about “A Woman You Should Know.”
