Beesley ‘27

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a place I went to a million times as a kid but had not visited recently until this winter break on a first date with Finch. At the time, I thought the Met was the perfect spot to meet someone because there were endless conversation starters. However, as we went through the exhibits, I struggled to keep a conversation because I found the various art pieces triggering memories of the different exes throughout the year. For example, the lakes and gardens painted by Monet captured the dates with Mr. Green Sweater through the Connecticut trails. The Sofa by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec brought me back to the last time Mrs. Skidmore and I watched Bridgerton.

Getting distracted by the artwork, I made up the excuse to leave the museum and get some food in Chinatown with Finch. As we walked around the area, I realized we were not compatible. Similar to other dates I went on this year, we wanted different things romantically and were at different stages of our lives. On my train ride home, I texted Finch to end things and started reflecting on my past relationships, pondering whether I had already found my match.

Curious if my exes have ever wondered the same. I decided to call Mr. Green Sweater, a man I had dated for about six months a few years ago. After a few rings, I lost hope and realized it was probably a bad idea, and I ended the phone call. Hours later, I unexpectedly got a callback from him, asking, “Is everything alright, Ella?”

I had not heard that name in so long; I immediately felt brought back to when we were dating. After taking a brief pause, I lied, explaining that it was a butt dial but that we should catch up soon.

My relationship with the name Ella changed significantly as I grew up. I used it for the first twelve years of my life, but when I moved to Connecticut six years ago, there were so many people with the same name that I decided to avoid confusion and went by my last name, Beesley. Suddenly, it became the name everyone I knew used, including my immediate family.

When I met Mr. Green Sweater, I introduced myself as Beesley, and later in the night, I regrettably told him that my “real” name was Ella, and he used that name ever since. A few months passed, and we started dating, but I eventually ended it.

One of the biggest reasons the relationship didn’t work was that there was always a disconnect, and it all started with my name. To him, using my first name felt like a way to feminize me, stripping away a part of my identity. After the call, I began reflecting on others who also used my first name instead of my last—the people I matched with on Tinder and Hinge. On these apps, I use my first name as a way to create a boundary between me and them, unable for them to understand me fully.

As I thought more about it, I realized that my name wasn’t just a label—it was a reflection of how I saw myself and how I wanted others to see me. Whether it was Ella or Beesley, it wasn’t about the name itself but the identity I was trying to carve out at different stages in my life. In the end, the struggle with my name was more than just a preference—it was about control, about owning my identity in a world that often wanted to define me for me.