“ALEX!” my brother shouts from across the room. God, why can’t you just call me Lexi? Although Alex was not the worst name he had given me, it was my most despised name. Nugget. Chungsten - similar to tungsten. Berry. Tard. So many names to pick one, yet he gravitated towards Alex. Maybe it was to annoy me? Frustrate me? Anger me? 

I’ve always thought of Alex as a boy name. Although there are numerous instances where girls had gone by the name Alex, I could never wrap my head around it only being a name for boys. In grade school and middle school, there was a boy named Alex. Never wanting to be confused with him, I only ever wanted to be called Lexi. Or anything that’s not Alex. 

Yet for some odd reason--not so odd anymore--he would never drop that name. I even tried to ignore his calls. “Alex, what are you doing?”

“Alex, go take out the trash!”

“Alex, help me unload the dishwasher.”

The more he said my name, the more I got used to it, and the more I responded to it. I’m not sure if it was a matter of surrender or a matter of realization, but I let him call me Alex. A realization that him giving me names was never meant to be a form of torture, but a sign of someone who cares.  So, not only do I let him, but I want-- and even expect--him to call me Alex. The name that used to bring me the most disgust has now become the name that brings me the most joy. Just because of him.