An Open Letter to my Parents and to the Person Responsible for Giving me the name Dinosaur.

To the person who named me Dinosaur:

In an effort to address the rage issues

that have prevented me from being a good son or friend

and caused me to be angry at my parents

and attack and devour most sentient beings,

I want you to know

that I have sought out a therapist.

As they are want to do,

my therapist has challenged me to look at myself before blaming others.

So that's what I did:

took a long and difficult look at my reflection in the water.

I started on the outside,

and what I saw made it clear

that my rage problems do not stem from my significant height,

nor my robust weight,

nor my exceptional jawline and teeth,

nor my sparkling eyes and muscular legs.

I am, in fact, quite an impressive beast.

I have, however, begun to accept

that my tiny arms may be the source of my anger,

ridiculous appendages that undermine my otherwise spectacular presence,

their dysfunction requiring me to stomp on my prey

and/or ravenously grab at it with my massive jaws

instead of eating with my hands.

Sure, I understand that this behavior may, in fact,

help build my exceptional legs and masculine chin,

and maybe it's impressive to instill fear in others,

but it is also exactly the kind of outburst I loathe:

stomping and gnashing uncontrollably like a child having a tantrum.

After explaining this to my therapist,

she encouraged me to look deeper.

Through introspection, I have also come to realize

that fear is not the same as respect,

and this childish behavior will not earn me the respect I desire,

the respect I deserve.

I read somewhere that the reason we T-rexes have such small arms

is to prevent accidental or intentional amputation

when a pack of us eat from the same carcass.

Evolution, it would seem,

has addressed our poor table manners

because we have been unable

(or unwilling)

to do so ourselves.

Branded by our stubbornness,

instead of the indomitability we crave,

we are a terrifying joke.

I am a terrifying joke.

"So you blame your parents?"

my therapist asks.

"yes, them, for teaching me to read

but not how to behave."

Pay attention, because this is the part where you come in.

"And I blame whoever named me Dinosaur,"

I tell her,

"and called me Tyrannosaurus Rex."

Because I read somewhere else that dinosaur means monstrous lizard,

and tyrannosaurus rex means tyrant king,

and I feel like that really set me up

to where I have to live into those kinds of names.

And from what I understand,

(and this I also got from reading)

my family tree is closer to the birds than to the lizards.

Not that you'd know that from the way our arms look,

(hardly the majestic wings of our relatives),

or from the way we eat,

(more rapacious than peckish).

Still, I bet we might have turned out differently

I might have turned out differently

had I not had to carry the weight of your expectations,

the ones you put on me with those awful names,

even when you knew I was without the arm strength to carry them.

Signed,

T-Rex

(where the T stands for therapy not tyranny)