Persecution begins at roll call when your last name is Hitler. My first name is Ehren, but no one remembers that. People don't let you forget that you share a name with someone famous'or in my case, infamous. I am in no way related to this infamous dictator. We just share a last name. Outside of the criticism, that's all it is to me: a name. Hitler. German. One who lives in a hut. A shepherd. I would much rather be called a sheep-fucker than a Nazi. It's easier to laugh at and the accusation wouldn't be taken seriously outside the classroom.

Unfortunately, that's what I had become in high school. A Nazi. As soon as anyone got word of my last name, the ridicule would start. Year One: "Hitler? Really? Your name is Hitler?!" Cue laughing. Insert uneasiness. Commence public humiliation. "Did you hear what this kid's name is?" Year Two: "Hammenpfieffer better not sit next to Hitler! I hope the desks are flame-retardant!" Year Three: "HILE!" Year Four: Exit Ehren Hitler. Commence home schooling. End social contact. "Best years of your life", my ass.

So here I sit mere minutes from the start of another four years of education. I don't know if I can take any more insults. Changing my name was the only option I saw back then. But it wouldn't have made any difference to have it done while I was still living at home. My hometown peers will always know me as Hitler. I don't want to graduate again with every clown in the class making Nazi jokes about me. That's why I came here.

I couldn't do anything about it before I was eighteen; not on my own anyway. You can't do anything on your own until you're eighteen. My father would have had to file a name change for me.

A little bit about my father: He's the kind of guy who would never let you eat desert without clearing your plate. Never let you go outside until you finished your chores. Never let you watch TV until your homework was done. Even when you got older and started to think Shit, I can do whatever I want. Stay up late. Eat whatever. Drink whatever. Hah. Good luck with that, Scooter. Whatever you did, this guy knew. And if it was something he didn't agree with, you'd better have a damned good reason why you did it.

So before I even asked if I could change my name, I knew what the answer was going to be: a resounding no. I had to load up the evidence or my case would never go to trial before the judge. Of course, I didn't have said evidence. Just the testimony of an upset teen with an unfortunate name.

'Dad,'� I started in the most informative voice possible. 'The kids at school call me a Nazi.'�

My father lowered his paper and stared ahead for a moment before locking eyes with me. 'Is that so?'�

I knew what this game was. And I knew that look. Certainly my father knew this conversation would come sooner or later. He was far more prepared than I was for this battle. And he should have been. He'd been preparing for it since the day I began attending school.

'Yes,'� I replied. 'They call me a Nazi.'�

'Are you a Nazi?'�

'No.'�

'Then there's no basis for the accusation, is there?'� With that, he set the trap, expecting me to bring up what would be brought up sooner or later, should the battle continue. I didn't want to bring out my trump card so early. But at that point, I realized that whatever munitions I brought would have no impact.

'Dad, why didn't you ever change your name?'� I asked, effectively raising my white flag. 'Didn't anybody ever give you any problems about it?'�

'Ehren,'� he said. ''Hitler' is a name, just like Simpson or Castro. But you don't see the Simpsons changing their names because OJ killed his wife or the Castros changing theirs because Fidel runs a communist country. Just because you share the name of someone horrible doesn't make the name horrible.'�

'But Dad,'� I protested, 'Didn't anyone ever give you crap about it?'�

'Actually, no,'� he replied, as though he anticipated the question. 'My father'your grandfather'was one of the hardest workers you ever saw and the nicest person you ever met. Even after World War II, no one gave him any trouble about his name. My father was good friends with his boss and when his boss' son started his own branch of the company, I was one of the first people he hired because we grew up together. Sure, people point it out, but no one's ever given me any problems.'�

He could see this story wasn't helping me at all. 'Son, it's high school. Sooner or later it's over. The question is whether or not you're going to let these people change you to meet their standards. I know what this name means to most people, but what it means to me is keeping my identity; keeping my father's name. The name of my father is more important to me than the opinion of a few jerks. It should be for you too.'�

Very well, Dad, I thought. Eighteen it is. I walked away from that battle convinced that my father didn't understand at all what I was being subjected to as a result of this name. He'd never understand because his peers are already grown up. My peers are fucking six-year-olds in eighteen-year-old bodies.

When we actually were six years old, no one had any major issues with anyone. But I was the fat kid; a target from the get-go. So I could always rely on being the butt of the laughter. The only person who didn't laugh'the only true friend I had back then'was a girl named Jo. She never laughed at me. But she didn't defend me either. Nevertheless, it was better than nothing.

I remember it was in fourth grade when someone finally made the connection. He was a new student'just moved from across town. Really bright kid. How else would he have figured it out? The teacher placed him next to me because she knew I wasn't exactly the most popular kid in the class, nor was I the most self-confident. A friend would do me good. He asked me what my name was and I replied, to his bewilderment, 'Ehren Hitler'�.

'Are you related to Adolf Hitler?'� he asked'the question that would haunt me for many years to come. Was I related to Adolf Hitler? Hell no. I had known who Adolf Hitler was; leafing uninterestedly through the index of a textbook and coming across my name. I could tell just looking at him that he was an evil man.

But Little Einstein knew more. How else could he have explained to my inquisitive tormentors that this 'Adolf Hitler'� was a Nazi who killed millions of Jews in World War II. Little did this brainiac know that he was fueling my aggressors with the ammunition needed to torment me forever. I can't blame him, though; they would have found out eventually. I couldn't have blamed him if I wanted to. He only stayed in the class half the year before moving again.

People were ignorant to what a Nazi was until we actually learned about them. That didn't keep them from calling me one before we learned about it, and only enhanced the ridicule afterwards. That was when Jo finally stepped in. Apparently making fun of someone's appearance was one thing (I had slimmed out), but calling names was another. Regardless, I appreciated the defense.

Jo was the only real friend I'd ever had at that point. Whenever the jackasses would give me shit about my name, she'd be quick to call them immature. It really wouldn't have much effect until the later years of elementary, when the boys started caring about what the girls thought of them. But Jo stood by my side through all the jeers, and I loved her for it.

Most of what I got was just unimaginative stuff. Nazi. Dictator. Sometimes they were really bad, like Jew Killer. Eventually they got a little clever. CCC: Concentration Camp Counselor. Looking back, they were really crappy insults. But at twelve years old with one friend in the world, they hurt.

Maybe they were jealous. Jo was spending more and more time with me at recess. Maybe they didn't take too well the fact that I had a developing lady accompanying me, albeit one who saw most of them as immature. Whenever she was around the name-calling didn't hurt as much. I was distracted. I really liked this girl. Unfortunately, she was as much a social butterfly as I was an awkward wallflower. The only time I ever got to dance with her was at our elementary graduation dance. One time. But at least it was a slow song. Regardless, I felt our bond was strong heading into secondary education.

Heading into high school, I felt confident that people would give up the whole Nazi thing. Damn, was I ever wrong. First day of class, I introduce myself to my neighbor as Ehren Hitler. You'd think I'd have learned from that mistake already.

'Hitler? Really? Your name is Hitler?'� The jackass then turned to his buddies'my new group of tormentors'and proceeded to tell them all about it, as though it were some great big joke for everyone to have a good laugh at. Everyone but me. And if I thought telling my name was a big mistake, the one I made next topped it tenfold.

I nudged the guy with my elbow, 'Hey, shut up!'� It was just my luck that I was sitting next to the guy who would jump to the varsity football team his sophomore year, but had all the ego way ahead of schedule.

'No one tells me to shut up, Adolf.'� That was the end of that conversation, but only the beginning of the grudge.

My future would consist of entering classrooms to 'HILE!'� and 'Mein führer!'� Blitzkrieg Bastard, Third Reich, etc., etc. My future would not include, however, a relationship with Jo. She started seeing a jock with a 'less offensive'� name, as she put it. 'It would never work out,'� she lied, and proceeded to call me Hitler instead of Ehren. I don't think she even noticed.

My public school days came to a staggering halt my senior year. My math teacher accidentally called me 'Adolf'� during class. It was an honest mistake. He had listened to the jackasses call me that most every day. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. The class was in stitches and I, at eighteen years old, was in tears. I was known as a Nazi. By everyone. I left everything in that class'books, backpack, burdens'and went home. Finished high school at home (no graduation, this time) and caught the first Greyhound out of town.

When I got where I was going, I went down to the courthouse. I had run away'there was no going back home, new name or not. I sat outside the courtroom waiting to go in and do what I had gone there to do; to do what I'd wanted to do for a long time. Someone came out and called me in.

'Ehren'� Hitler?'� The woman paused before looking up at me in amazement. 'I can only imagine'�'� she trailed off, chuckling uneasily. 'They're not even going to try to object changing that name. Probably even encourage it. They're waiting for you.'� I bowed my head, took a deep breath, stood up and opened my eyes.

'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�

Persecution begins at roll call when your last name is Hitler.

----James Arvidson. Here.

That's why I wanted to have it changed.

----Kelly Barker. Here.

I don't want to go through anymore name-calling,

----Kevin Brown. Here.

insults,

----Mark Calloway. Present.

jeers,

----Paula Damon. Here.

pain,

----Wendell Erhardt. Right here.

nothing.

----Anthony Giovanni. Here.

I want people to see me for who I am, not what I am.

----Isaac Hammond. Yeah.

It's hard to see how that can be done with a name like'�

----Ehren... Hitler?

But I'm here, and I know who I am. More importantly, I know what I'm not.

One day, everyone else will too.

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