They call me Deaf Daisy.

As one learns in elementary school English language arts classes, alliteration is a powerful literary technique that aids in memorization.

While not extremely clever, I never expected the nickname brought upon me by a group of seven-year-olds to be a product of a lengthier thought process than is to be expected from a seven year old.

They thought I didn't know what they called me. What Deaf Daisy can't hear won't hurt her. But I knew.

It started to hurt less and less as the years passed. What began as playground teasing among children turned into nothing more than a monicker with which to write me off by.

"Who's she?"

"Oh, that's just Deaf Daisy."

As if, because I cannot hear, I am defined ultimately by the fact that I cannot hear. They cannot communicate with me, so they have no reason to try to learn any other, perhaps more clever, descriptor of Daisy.

I'm just Deaf Daisy.