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Who Am I?

My name is one of common nature; you can find others like it around nearly every corner you turn. The meaning of the name varies by culture: some have said it means “Keeper of Keys” while others might argue it means “Guardian of Doors”. Is that who I am? A keeper of keys, the guardian of doors?

Perhaps.

17 years ago I was born in Coon Rapids, Minnesota. A small, solidified town. But this was not my home. For three years I lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, a beautiful and highly populated city with my mother and grandmother. My biological father abandoned us before I was even born: he stated I was a “mistake he didn’t want to be a part of.” If he could see me now, perhaps he might think differently... Perhaps he might wish he’d stayed and gotten to know me. But then again, would I be who I am if he was here with me? I’m nothing like him.

Trees were not hard to find here. In fact, there was an entire forest of them just across the street from our house. Beautiful, tall trees that rustled in the wind and grew taller with every snow fall. My Grandmother used to tell me that someday she’d take me into those trees, show me the pond with the swans and the fairies that hide away in rotted out logs. This was something I never got to see.

At three years old, my mother met a man on an online game, one she eventually fell in love with. His name was Mark Ortiz. He was 5'4", 208 lbs, had brownish-black hair and wore thick, square glasses. He was a very kind and generous man. Over time they grew closer, and decided they wanted to meet each other in person. Things went well, and together they made the decision to move all of us to his home in Pueblo, Colorado. One year later I was sitting in my dark blue car seat, the kind with the pull over bar and food covering the handle. My mother, who was in the drivers seat pulled the car into our driveway, cutting the ignition. She then turned to me and asked me a question most four year olds don’t understand how to answer, being that we are four year olds and have no concept of decision and what our choices mean or anticipate. “How would you like to have a little brother or sister? Would you like that?” Okay, so perhaps it was two questions. Being the four year old I was I screamed “Yes!” with joy. When my mother stepped out of the car, I bowed my head and said a small prayer. I asked God, with the kindest heart, for a dear little brother. One who would play cars with me, one I could protect and love and tell stories with. He heard me.

One year later a small and fragile baby boy was born and I loved him dearly. Sure, I missed being the center of attention but he was the best thing that had ever happened to our family. Moving forward, Mom and Dad got married, I played the role of the flower girl but was so afraid my Uncle had to carry me down the isle. Over the years my appearance changed as the typical child’s appearance does. I grew taller, lost a few teeth, gained a few teeth, and learned many things like how to fish and how to beat up the boys who picked on my little brother. I was quite the stubborn and protective child.

Today I am 17 years old. I weigh anywhere between 90-100 lbs dependent on the day and, strangely, the weather. I am often referred to as having a 'country’ appearance. I wear a lot of camouflage, and always have boots on. Country music and classical rock are all I listen to; I have a strong hatred for rap. My mind is a confusing maze, even for myself. Due to 5 concussions, I have a hard time remembering things, but the things I do remember hold the best memories.

I quickly ran to my quad and hopped on shaking with joy, a feeling I have always experienced before a good ride. This is my favorite place to be, right here on my little atv, throttle under my thumb, helmet on my head, foot in the shifter. In excitement, I flipped my key and pushed the ignition. Of course my battery is dead. Quickly I jumped off and ripped at the pull start. One, two, three. There she is; my baby is ready to go. Pulling at the choke I threw my leg over the sun-beaten seat and looked at the road ahead of me. 'Ol Red is as ready to go as I am, shaking with enthusiasm. With a gleam in my eye, I faced the rider next to me, and revved my engine. The man ten feet in front of us raised his flag, and I was ready. I gripped my handlebars and leaned forward, my foot under the shift itching to pull up. The flag drops and my foot raises. Within milliseconds trees were flying by me. Second. Bounding over jumps and small rivets I leaned left to throw the back end out to drift around the corner. Third. Engine roaring, I flew past cheering bystanders and smoothly shifted into 4th. I looked to my right and my opponent is right behind me. Adrenaline rushes through me as I slide through the next corner with a simple downshift and find my way back up to fourth. The wind is beating against my body, warm and heavy, pulling against my gear, all marked with the number 53. Fifth. The finish line is just ahead of me. The crowd is roaring, fading in the distance as I close my attention in on the goal ahead. Every inch of my body is pulsing, adrenaline shooting through my veins leaving me feeling high as a kite. 3 meters... 2 meters... 1 meter. The crowd roars. I rip at the breaks as I come to a stop, downshifting the whole way and drifting around to face my opponent with a sinister smile, but he’s not there. I win. The walkie talkie I have in the shirt pocket of my red and black plaid button up, which is not my gear, makes a crackling noise. “Kayli, it’s time to come home.” The crowd fades back into towering trees. The lights I had once seen turn to the reflection of the sun. The crowd I was waving to disappears. I’d give anything to make it real. To hold this moment in reality.

Is this, perhaps, who I am? Is this where I'm from? Or is this where I want to be, who I want to be?

How can you ask me, at such a young age, who I am? As far as I'm aware, I barely even know.

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