A personal experience of mine that is echoed in the vignette titled “My Name” is my struggle with my last name. As I shared in class, I have four siblings, and I’m the only one with a different last name. This came about because my dad was in jail when I was born. To be honest, I was bothered by it but not as bothered by the legacy of my last name on my mother’s side. My mother, her mother, her sister, her brother, and so on, were all in foster care and eventually turned to drugs. I hated that it seemed like history was repeating itself when I entered care. I felt as if I would just be another Butler on drugs; I thought I would be alone. The fear of becoming just another Butler swallowed me whole. The loneliness of my struggle weighed heavily on my shoulders, especially because I was the only one with a different last name among my siblings. In a world where your name is supposed to define you or open doors for you, mine felt like a sentence or a one-way ticket to a fate. I felt as if the weight of my last name was not just a label but a looming shadow.