With my bipolar swings, would I ever land on middle ground?
The summer after seventh grade, I went to camp for the first time. I remember grassy hills, playing softball on the worn campgrounds, the swirling summer breeze. Standing there at bat, hitting the ball, watching it sail away before dashing to first base, I, Yael, was the happiest girl alive.
But I have a second name, Shprintza. I hate the name, especially because my father calls me “Yael Shprintza” when he’s being strict with me. I keep my second name quiet — it’s not even on my siddur! — and I don’t want anyone to find out what it is, but my mother signed me up for camp with my full name: Yael Shprintza. That meant that all of the name tags, bunk lists, and anything in the office system had me down by this name I despised.
“I’m called Yael,” I kept telling people, and I always crossed out my second name on anything I could get my hands on.
No one said a word about it, until one Friday night, when we were eating the seudah in the dining room, and one of my bunkmates said loudly, “Yael Shprintza, can you please pass the Coke?”
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