The Three Separate Lives of Carmelina Ann Mendoza

Throughout my lifetime, I have been three separate people. I have been Carmelina Ann Trossen, Carmelina Ann Trossen-Mendoza, and now, I am Carmelina Ann Mendoza. I am all three, yet at the same time, I am none of them. These names have defined who I was expected to be, shaping my identity in ways I couldn’t control. Though I have only legally been Carmelina Mendoza for seven months, it feels like she has existed for years.

Most people have only one birth certificate—their single, unchanging proof of existence. I have had three. Each of them represents a different phase of my life, a new version of myself dictated by forces beyond my control. For years, I was owned and traded back and forth, all because a piece of paper said so. That paper defined me. But today, that changes. Today, I became who I want to be.

“Beep. Beep. Beep.” My alarm clock blares. I roll over to silence it, but I’ve already been awake for hours, lying alone with my thoughts. No music, no TV, no lights. My heart is waging a silent war within my chest. My head spins. I feel like I’ve lost myself, even though today is the day I go to court to reclaim who I am. I stay in bed as long as I can, paralyzed by doubt. I’ve wanted this for so long, fought for this moment for years. But now that it’s here, I feel disoriented. My stomach churns, my palms sweat. Doubt whispers: Is this really what I want? Am I making a mistake? “Carmelina!” My dad’s voice jolts me from my spiral. He took the day off work to be with me, knowing how pivotal today is.

Growing up, I became a master of deception. Whenever someone asked about my parents, I would say, “Oh yeah, they divorced before I was born.” It was easier than explaining the truth—that they were never married, barely even together, and that my existence ignited a war.

My mother named me Carmelina Ann Trossen without my father’s input, a final act of defiance against a relationship that had ended. To her, my name was a weapon, a symbol of her victory in keeping me from my father. But it didn’t last long. When my father won custody, I was given his name as well, becoming Carmelina Ann Trossen-Mendoza. Still, a name change wasn’t enough to free me from my mother’s grasp.

I was a pawn in her game, a child caught in a battlefield of manipulation and resentment. She filled my ears with venom, painting my father as the villain. I believed her because I was just a child, because I loved her, because I trusted her to put me first.

One moment shattered that illusion forever. I was ten years old, sitting in my mother’s car on a Sunday afternoon, waiting to be dropped off at my dad’s house. The topic of my birth came up, and she let it slip—my father wasn’t there. She quickly covered, saying he had been “working.” But something inside me cracked. I couldn’t stop crying. She tried to silence me before I reached my dad, but I walked into his house with tear-streaked cheeks. He held me as I sobbed, whispering apologies for something he didn’t even do. Years later, I learned the truth: he wasn’t working. He was home. She had simply chosen not to tell him I was being born. She took that moment from him, and from me.

That was the day I began to see the game for what it was. That was the day I started becoming Carmelina Ann Mendoza.

Even though I legally remained Carmelina Ann Trossen-Mendoza, I no longer felt like her. That name represented two halves of my life, two versions of myself I had to switch between depending on which parent I was with. My mother’s house was chaos—no rules, no structure, no expectations. My father’s house was stability—routine, discipline, and family dinners. I had to adapt to survive, becoming a different person in each home. I wasn’t living; I was performing.

My entire existence was dictated by court rulings and legal documents. The government decided my name. The government decided where I lived. Strangers in a courtroom determined the most intimate details of my life. My father could have been erased from my world entirely, and that thought still haunts me.

When I turned fifteen, I made the decision to live with my dad full-time. But my mother still had legal control over me, preventing me from changing my name. Even after cutting ties with her, she still held power over my identity. I felt trapped.

Eighteen was my liberation. While most people dream of their future careers or finding love, my biggest dream was to change my name. On my birthday, my dad, my stepmom, and I sat together and submitted the application. I was ecstatic. I should have been overjoyed. But something felt…off.

On the morning of my court date, I finally forced myself out of bed after hours of self-doubt. I chose a simple black dress with kitten heels—an unspoken funeral attire for the versions of me I was leaving behind. I stared at my reflection, getting lost in the eyes I shared with my mother. For a brief moment, I hated myself. Changing my name wouldn’t change my face, my DNA, or the fact that I was half her. But it was the one thing she had given me that I could erase.

When I stepped into the courtroom, fear gripped me. I was terrified—not just of the judge, but of the choice I was making. But deep down, I knew this was right. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t speaking for anyone else. I was standing before a judge, advocating for myself.

After the courthouse, we changed everything—my birth certificate, my driver’s license, my social security card. I had expected to feel liberated. Instead, I felt…empty. Why wasn’t I happy? What was the point of all of this?

Then, that night, as I sat at the dinner table with my dad and stepmom, it clicked. I had done this for them. For my dad, who fought for years just to have his name on my birth certificate. For the family I had chosen, the family I belonged to. For the first time, I truly felt like their daughter.

A name is something most people never think twice about. But for me, it was everything. Changing my name didn’t change who I was, but it gave me the power to define myself on my own terms. It gave me courage. It gave me closure. It allowed me to embrace every version of myself—the girl who once loved her mother unconditionally, the girl who fought to be her father’s daughter, and the woman who now knows she has always been enough.

I may have had three names, but I have only ever been one person.

Instructor: Maryhilda Ben Ibe

James T. Lewis Prize Winner 2025