In my defense, Aaron is actually a Middle Eastern name. It is the Hebrew half of the linguistic forking of the Ancient Egyptian aha rw, meaning “warrior lion,” the other half of which became the Arabic “Harun.” I had people call me that for a while, actually. Like some of my other attempts to cling to my culture at the expense of my personhood, it fit like too-big leather shoes, chafing and blistering at the tender skin beneath. I abandoned it quickly.

Besides, I am Egyptian, coming from a nation with an already complex relationship to Arabness, positioned at the uncomfortable interstice of Arabia and Africa, one of the first countries “opened” by Islamic expansion, colonized and re-colonized since time out of mind. This seems a fitting parallel to the way my queerness and my transness put me at awkward odds with the culture I grew up in, despite my attempts to honor and respect it. My name echoes this disjunction, encompassing the fragile intersection of religion, culture, nationality, sexuality, and gender.

Of course, I didn’t think of any of this when I was fourteen. I named myself Aaron because I loved Aaron Carter as a kid, because at fourteen I was scared and I was losing my identity and I needed to put a name on it as fast as I could to try to hold it together, because back then I wanted to get as far away from the culture of my oppressive family as I could.

But now I am grown, I am strong, I honor my culture.

And my name is Aaron.