I know the mosaic says 8th street because I am at the 8th street station. I was on 8th street then I walked down the stairs below the sign that said 8th street. How can it be that all my life I wrote my name as James L. Prichard and it is really, James L. Wight? One doesn’t choose their surname like they choose the right leather attache that communicates, “I am stylish and willing to spend money on quality, but I expect it to last a long time and weather the enviroment well.” No one is born into a surname and it just is.
How do you detect a fake surname? Because that is just what it is to me, fake. My father changed his name sometime before the 70s. How could the government just let that happen? Last year an auditor accused of false charity contributions. I give too much money to charity and they want to verify that I am not lying, yet my father can just say his name is George G. Prichard and no one questions anything. “Why yes Mr. Prichard here is an ID. Why yes Mr. Prichard you just appear from nowhere. Why would we question that you are who you say you are?” An aged woman of daily distinction places her hand between herself and the attache held on my lady by my left hand. Her jacket catches the edge. Lost in thought and an accumulative familiarity with my subway commute home I didn’t hear the train arrive nor the crackling announcement on the aged speaker. I just don’t understand, how can someone just change who they are?