I Will Name Him Sam

Written by :
Mariam Fadoul

I am a strong, handsome boy.

I am a strong, handsome boy.

I am a strong, handsome boy.

I repeated this sentence three times in front of the mirror.

I repeated it looking straight into my eyes through the mirror.

My mother told me -and my mother never lies- if I stood in front of the mirror and repeat this sentence, I will attract positive energy, and nothing will upset me.

Here am I doing it, because today I need it now more than ever to endure the whole day.

Friday, is the time for the family to gather at my grandmother’s.

My grandma who barley kisses me, she kisses me with no love like it is a duty for her, so it looks like she kissed me like the rest of her grandchildren.

Her grandchildren who she kisses from the bottom of her heart, her grandchildren who she let them choose the flavor of the “Bonbon” they prefer, and leave me the mint flavor that I hate, her grandchildren who are allowed to play in the house big hallways with the “Scooter”, and when my turn comes, suddenly, everyone is bored, so I quit playing.

I leave the “Scooter” aside and sit at the chair in the corner, watching my cousins playing games I never participated in, listening to their giggles pleasing my grandma’s heart.

“Enough playing around, lunch is ready” My aunt called at us.

Almost a minute passed, they were all sitting in their places around the big food table, and my aunt was serving everyone his plate.

Thank God my mother was there to give me my plate, or it would be empty all day!

Thank God my mother was there to buy me all flavors of the “Bonbon” when we leave grandma’s house, and take me to the park to ride the “Scooter”, and play and laugh with me and kisses me with the bottom of her heart.

These memories passed by my head like lightning, many questions and wonderings and recollections I lived in my childhood, I could not find any reasonable answer for, neither could I explain.

I could not stop this memories current inside my head, at grandma’s house, in the neighborhood with neighbors, in school with my teachers, picturing a memory after memory, holding my mother’s notebook opened in my hand.

My mom, who came an hour ago to give me her notebook, dairies she wrote for me, because tomorrow is my first day at collage, and I am supposed to be a grown-up and adult now for this to be a gift for me.

All these years, my mother did not just look after me and raise me, but she was sending me letters on papers like I am a close friend of hers, telling me everything she goes through on her normal day and in her work, telling me about problems she is having, even telling me about myself and how I am growing up day after day, telling me about her early memories and what she is planning for future.

I kept reading, maybe I find more answers, maybe I understand and figure myself, maybe I find myself if I lose life.


Here you are again asking me about your father although I told you a long time ago, he passed away in a car accident, but you are still confusing me with your repeated questions about him.

“Mom, what does my father look like? Do I look like him? Why did not he take a picture with me? Did he like pizza like me?

A bunch of questions I had to invent answers for, to convince your childish mind that never stops wondering and questioning. 

This morning, you came to me and lay in my lap, I ran my hand through your hair, I know exactly you hate Fridays and family meetings.

You looked at me with your wide eyes, those eyes that overwhelms me, I saw in your eyes constant questions about your grandmother hate for you, your aunts caution for their children to play with you, your feelings that you are ignored and neglected by them. 

Today you did not ask me about it, maybe you had enough of my stupid answers trying to convince you that you are making a big deal of it, and overthink it, I guess you convinced yourself with your childish unreasonable explanations that you are a colored alien and you are unlovable for humans!

For God’s sake, stop staring at me like that, please help me.

How could I tell you that you are adopted? And I am not your real mother?

I tried many years to prepare you for this moment, I trust in you and in your mind, and of what it will become in future, but not now!

Let me tell you something: 

I remember that night when I had a fight with my parents, I tried so hard to talk with them on the matter, but they did not want to understand why I wanted to adopt you, I tried to describe you again to them, the two-year-old baby who had the peace of the universe in him, but he could not hide from me the reflected intelligence in his wide eyes, the way he looks at me, his hands and its movements, his voice and babbling some words trying to speak to me.

Dammit! I cannot leave him in that miserable orphanage!

My parents were mad, and my mom’s voice raised: how could you bring a child from street to raise him in my house? A child you know nothing about his parents, and how he came to this world, even his parents’ original religion, I will not allow this!

The argument with my parents was tensed and I was convinced that adaption is equal to motherhood, because it means that, there is a child who is going to be saved from this brutal world.

“I swear you are out of your mind, if you bring this street child, he will not step a foot inside my house neither will you” my mother shouted.

I remained silent facing this harsh speech, because any argument with my parents ends up screaming and imposing their opinion every time, they reject any opinion opposing to theirs, they are afraid of uncommon ideas and unrecognized thoughts. 

I went to my room, and I knew exactly what I was going to do the next day.”


I tried to take a deep breath, I stood in front of the mirror.

I am a strong, handsome boy.

I could not feel the energy -because my mother is lying- she is not my mother and this is the first lie.

I am a strong, handsome boy.

My emotions are still mixed, she is my mother regardless the universe and my grandma’s disagreement.

I am a strong, handsome boy.

It does not matter if she is my biological mother or not, what is important that I love her now more than ever.

I repeated the sentence three times like my mother told me -and my mother never lies- and I feel better now.

My mom still has plenty to tell me in her dairies, and I have so much to discuss with her tomorrow, as for my grandparents and the rest, please forgive them father, because they do not know how to love.

With these words, I finished writing the story that required from me, “Acceptance of Others” by dawn, and I sat and thought of what I wrote.

The heroine of my story was able to stood up against her parents and adopt the baby and raise him, she faced society and her parents’ rejection by adopting the baby, the child who grew up and understood his mother’s point of view.

How many females in our society want to marry and raise a child, but do not have the ability? 

How could rules and laws help us to adopt children and give them their adopters surname? 

How much will our society accept adopted children and give them their full rights?

Lot of questions and the answers for them need more time, although written words are never worthless, I am going to adopt a child in future and name him Sam

How will our society accept adopted children and give them their full rights?

Mariam Fadoul