Pale Fire: Illustrated Sports Illustrated Sports Pale Fire Journal | Page 43

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain, but once slain, a waxwing’s shadow
lives on, forgotten but still present.
My waxwing was named Hazel, a child forced into an identity by parents
who didn’t seem to know better. Hazel lived an awkward childhood, never feel-
ing right in her skin, never treated the way she would have liked. Then, one day,
I killed her.
In a manner of speaking, of course. When it comes to crime of any type,
my hands are clean. I suppose one would be correct in thinking that Hazel and
I are the same person [1] , and yet I am not her. Somehow these two concepts are
unrelated to each other. I am not Hazel, nor am I the person I was ten, five, and
two minutes ago.
I was very young when I discovered what was different about me. Words
like “girl,” “young lady,” and especially that old name, “Hazel,” fit like a baggy
sweater riddled with loose threads and dangling down to my ankles. It wasn’t
until I looked around and realized that everyone else seemed to fit just perfectly
in their own sweaters that I decided to make a change for myself.
I wrote a letter out to my parents explaining all of it as best I could, trying
to get them to understand, though I knew they wouldn’t. I planned to leave it
for them to find and then run far away. Whether they dismissed me, punished
me, or yelled and yelled and yelled, I didn’t want to be there to hear it. I must
have been close to the lake [2] by the time they found that piece of paper covered
in my slanted writing.
From then on, my new identity sort of fell into place. I found new ways to
present more masculine every day, and eventually even strangers on the street
would tip their hats and call me “sir.” The name I chose, Kinbote, fit better
than Hazel ever had.
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