I'm not really an Emily anymore. When I was little, I could pull off the spunk and purpose behind those five letters, but now I am much more of a Jane, or Abby. Emily is for girls who are satisfied with shit, who know what they want and who they are. I guess I was those things when I was little, but now I'm just too uncertain. Names are important to me. You have to earn your name through your actions, and sense of self. I know quite a few Ben's who just don't live up to their expectations. Also, there are some James's who need to drop the act, and stop pretending to be someone they are not. You don't choose your name, but you really do, in a way. Maybe someday I will be Emily again, but not right now. When people know me, they call me Em. When my friend taught me how to drive, I told her to call me Em because it would trick my brain into thinking I was somewhere safe, in a place where people I felt comfortable were. My Dad is the only one who calls me Em right now, but sometimes when I am nervous, like when I was learning to drive, I will tell people to call me that. I don't really care for my last name. The Wasserman test was the old test for Herpes. Supercool, right?
Snow drifted gently from the black sky and a skinny blond woman screamed gripping the hand of the rail on her hospital bed. Her contractions were quickening and very soon she would be a mother for the second time. After sweat, pain and many hours her baby arrived. The doctor gasped as she observed a distinctly blue and grey face protruding from between the woman's legs. The baby was not breathing. Quickly the doctor found the source of this problem and saved the newest life on earth. "here she is", the doctor passed the baby into the mother's arms. "Hello baby girl, Hello Ella"
My name has an extra E. I am not Lexi, nor am I Lexy, or any other weird variation people manage to come up with. I am not Alexandra, no matter what my driver's license says. Alexandra is simply the feminine form of Alexander, and I am not the feminine form of anyone. I look in the mirror and I see my mother's eyes with my father's hair and a strange nose and mouth that came from no one. I do not think I resemble my parents, inside or out. Bits and pieces here and there, but when put together I do not really remind anyone of either of them. I think Lexie is a good identity for me. An untraditionally spelled, somewhat untraditional nickname, short and with that lovely X in the middle.
I doodle my name in cursive, in print and in those fat block letters that never turn out quite right, and I write it neatly at the top of every page of notes, every test, every worksheet. It’s a compulsion; my exams have my name written on the back. Even in my own notebooks. I've always been the only Louise in my school, possibly in my town, possibly in my county. Still, as old-fashioned as it is, my name has no stories, no history, no amazing namesake. There is only my Aunt Cynthia Louise, who I was kinda sorta named for because she set my parents up. But I like that because it’s my name, and not anyone else’s. It's mine.
"Avaline Bickmore was the most amazing woman to have ever lived. The end." This is what I was always told about my mother's grandmother, with whom she was absolutely infatuated. There were several arguments about what my name would be, but this is also just something I was told and have no true knowledge about. My mother wanted to name me after her, but thought it sounded too old, and wanted to modernize it. Thus, Avalena. I was convinced that I was the only Avalena. But actually, there are several. Although if you look them up on Facebook, which I don't recommend you do but I was curious, you will find that most of them are latino women with busts popping out of their shirts and multiple visible tattoos.
I have always wondered why I was named Isaac, and my brother Gabriel. Many of you probably are, like me, vaguely familiar with the biblical story about Isaac and Gabriel, but I shall tell it regardless. Isaac, Abraham's son, was about to be sacrificed, per God's request to Abraham (Yo Abe, if he had told you to jump off a bridge would you have done that too?). And as the story goes, God was just testing Abraham's faith in him (Yeah he definitely would've jumped), and as Abe is about to sacrifice his son, God calls it off, using the angel Gabriel to send his message. This story always sends a shiver down my spine and invokes a shudder deep within me, perhaps in my heart or even my soul. I have always been at least somewhat in belief that yes, fate does exist and yes, you do have a destiny-- and it is along those lines that I ask myself: "Was I named Isaac and my brother Gabriel for a reason? Will my brother save me some day?" And then, as I am thinking those mushy thoughts that seem to be taken straight from the script of some romance-drama-commedy television show (Glee fits the bill, right?) I realize, "Damn, I would hate to be at the mercy of my brother. That would just be damn irresponsible."
I don't always have the greatest memory of certain things, mainly because I try to forget most of my past so I'm not always caught up in it. I do too much thinking of the past, for better and worse. There is this one time that I always think about... "Mrraaah!" She growls, as she bites me on the shoulder. Playfully of course, otherwise my response of laughing would be a "mad-brained rudesby" sort of thing to do. It was a day in the winter of Eighth grade that I was being bit on the shoulder by my best friend Chiara at my other best friend's house, Sasha. We were hanging with our third best friend Eric, and combined we four were ChiaSashEriJames. A conglomerate of likeminded people with nothing to do but enjoy each other's company. Today we were engaged in mutual boredom as we brainstormed things to do. "Guys," I start lazily, "we should do something." So we did something. Trudged off in fact, to wards the direction of some park. To y'know, play or something. In the snow.
My full name is Worthington Peter Miner III. I grew up on 102nd Street, West End Avenue, Apartment 3E. Eight blocks from here Bobby Womack preached truth about the city streets. The building elevator was lime green. It was slow, and children used to embed pennies in its window, which was rusted silver, and served no other purpose than showing the elevator shaft. I grew up five blocks away from my father, who group up on 107th and West End. My father’s name is Worthington Peter Miner II. My Grandfather was the first Worthington Peter Miner, but he was also the third Worthington. No one is particularly fond of this name, and yet it remains. In attempt to end it, my father planned to name me Christopher Kenyon, but this did not come to pass, as “I was prematurely torn from my mother womb” on November 24th 1994, which was both Thanksgiving day, and my fathers birthday. The Robert Redford film, Quiz Show, was released that year. I like that movie.
As the story goes I was introduced to my father prenatally- by my then long deceased grandfather Louis Reshin Frumer- in a dream. The only logical name for me, then, was Louis. Perhaps my father hoped for we to share the qualities of his mild mannered father, taken prematurely by heart attack 7 years before my birth. Perhaps he hoped we would share the same sort of relationship, where father earns respect of son through gentle, firm action and calm leadership. We'll see how it all turns out.
Comet Hale-Bopp passed over Maine when I was being born. Naturally, my parents didn't want to name me Hale-bopp, nor did they prefer the name "C199501." They considered many names, but the favorites were Haley (vaguely after the Hale-Bopp comet), April (my due month), and Leah (it "sounded nice.") They decided against Haley when they thought people would get confused about "Haley's Comet", which had graced the sky in '94; and many baby girls born that year were given the name Haley. They wanted a more obscure name. So, April and Leah it was. Somewhere around Christmas, according to my mother, they decided on Leah. And thank god they didn't choose April, because I was a month premature and would have had the most awful time explaining the reason behind my name. I've only met two other Leahs in my life, one is my cats' veterinarian, the other works at Hannaford in Gorham. People get my name wrong all the time, they spell it like Lea Michelle spells her name, and people pronounce it like the princess from Star Wars. Over time I have come to accept that my name has two pronunciations, one, that my parents intended, the other, the one I cannot help and stopped caring about years ago. Lee-ugh. Lay-ugh. They both sound like my name. Recently, I've decided that I am just as much from my mother's family as I am of my father's family. Tradition states that the father's surname shall be the child's, but I state that I will have the name I choose. I choose Leah Packard-Grams. Hyphenated, pronounced BOTH ways.
I'm not really an Emily anymore. When I was little, I could pull off the spunk and purpose behind those five letters, but now I am much more of a Jane, or Abby. Emily is for girls who are satisfied with shit, who know what they want and who they are. I guess I was those things when I was little, but now I'm just too uncertain. Names are important to me. You have to earn your name through your actions, and sense of self. I know quite a few Ben's who just don't live up to their expectations. Also, there are some James's who need to drop the act, and stop pretending to be someone they are not. You don't choose your name, but you really do, in a way. Maybe someday I will be Emily again, but not right now.
ReplyDeleteWhen people know me, they call me Em. When my friend taught me how to drive, I told her to call me Em because it would trick my brain into thinking I was somewhere safe, in a place where people I felt comfortable were. My Dad is the only one who calls me Em right now, but sometimes when I am nervous, like when I was learning to drive, I will tell people to call me that. I don't really care for my last name. The Wasserman test was the old test for Herpes. Supercool, right?
Snow drifted gently from the black sky and a skinny blond woman screamed gripping the hand of the rail on her hospital bed. Her contractions were quickening and very soon she would be a mother for the second time. After sweat, pain and many hours her baby arrived. The doctor gasped as she observed a distinctly blue and grey face protruding from between the woman's legs. The baby was not breathing. Quickly the doctor found the source of this problem and saved the newest life on earth.
ReplyDelete"here she is", the doctor passed the baby into the mother's arms.
"Hello baby girl, Hello Ella"
My name has an extra E. I am not Lexi, nor am I Lexy, or any other weird variation people manage to come up with. I am not Alexandra, no matter what my driver's license says. Alexandra is simply the feminine form of Alexander, and I am not the feminine form of anyone.
ReplyDeleteI look in the mirror and I see my mother's eyes with my father's hair and a strange nose and mouth that came from no one. I do not think I resemble my parents, inside or out. Bits and pieces here and there, but when put together I do not really remind anyone of either of them.
I think Lexie is a good identity for me. An untraditionally spelled, somewhat untraditional nickname, short and with that lovely X in the middle.
I doodle my name in cursive, in print and in those fat block letters that never turn out quite right, and I write it neatly at the top of every page of notes, every test, every worksheet. It’s a compulsion; my exams have my name written on the back. Even in my own notebooks. I've always been the only Louise in my school, possibly in my town, possibly in my county. Still, as old-fashioned as it is, my name has no stories, no history, no amazing namesake. There is only my Aunt Cynthia Louise, who I was kinda sorta named for because she set my parents up. But I like that because it’s my name, and not anyone else’s. It's mine.
ReplyDelete"Avaline Bickmore was the most amazing woman to have ever lived. The end." This is what I was always told about my mother's grandmother, with whom she was absolutely infatuated. There were several arguments about what my name would be, but this is also just something I was told and have no true knowledge about. My mother wanted to name me after her, but thought it sounded too old, and wanted to modernize it. Thus, Avalena. I was convinced that I was the only Avalena. But actually, there are several. Although if you look them up on Facebook, which I don't recommend you do but I was curious, you will find that most of them are latino women with busts popping out of their shirts and multiple visible tattoos.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI have always wondered why I was named Isaac, and my brother Gabriel. Many of you probably are, like me, vaguely familiar with the biblical story about Isaac and Gabriel, but I shall tell it regardless. Isaac, Abraham's son, was about to be sacrificed, per God's request to Abraham (Yo Abe, if he had told you to jump off a bridge would you have done that too?). And as the story goes, God was just testing Abraham's faith in him (Yeah he definitely would've jumped), and as Abe is about to sacrifice his son, God calls it off, using the angel Gabriel to send his message. This story always sends a shiver down my spine and invokes a shudder deep within me, perhaps in my heart or even my soul. I have always been at least somewhat in belief that yes, fate does exist and yes, you do have a destiny-- and it is along those lines that I ask myself: "Was I named Isaac and my brother Gabriel for a reason? Will my brother save me some day?" And then, as I am thinking those mushy thoughts that seem to be taken straight from the script of some romance-drama-commedy television show (Glee fits the bill, right?) I realize, "Damn, I would hate to be at the mercy of my brother. That would just be damn irresponsible."
ReplyDeleteI don't always have the greatest memory of certain things, mainly because I try to forget most of my past so I'm not always caught up in it. I do too much thinking of the past, for better and worse. There is this one time that I always think about...
ReplyDelete"Mrraaah!" She growls, as she bites me on the shoulder. Playfully of course, otherwise my response of laughing would be a "mad-brained rudesby" sort of thing to do. It was a day in the winter of Eighth grade that I was being bit on the shoulder by my best friend Chiara at my other best friend's house, Sasha. We were hanging with our third best friend Eric, and combined we four were ChiaSashEriJames. A conglomerate of likeminded people with nothing to do but enjoy each other's company. Today we were engaged in mutual boredom as we brainstormed things to do. "Guys," I start lazily, "we should do something."
So we did something. Trudged off in fact, to wards the direction of some park. To y'know, play or something. In the snow.
ReplyDeleteMy full name is Worthington Peter Miner III. I grew up on 102nd Street, West End Avenue, Apartment 3E. Eight blocks from here Bobby Womack preached truth about the city streets. The building elevator was lime green. It was slow, and children used to embed pennies in its window, which was rusted silver, and served no other purpose than showing the elevator shaft. I grew up five blocks away from my father, who group up on 107th and West End. My father’s name is Worthington Peter Miner II. My Grandfather was the first Worthington Peter Miner, but he was also the third Worthington. No one is particularly fond of this name, and yet it remains. In attempt to end it, my father planned to name me Christopher Kenyon, but this did not come to pass, as “I was prematurely torn from my mother womb” on November 24th 1994, which was both Thanksgiving day, and my fathers birthday. The Robert Redford film, Quiz Show, was released that year. I like that movie.
“His middle name is Ayer?” A baby shower guest said with a confused twinge, a little repulsed.
ReplyDelete“Hahaha, that's funny.” It was now my parents turn to look confused. Her anger was understandable. Who would make a joke out of their child's name?
“What to do you mean that's funny? What's funny about Ayer?” My dad asked indignantly.
“Have you said it out loud?”
“What out loud?”
“Maximillian Ayer?”
The wave recognition slowly washed over their faces.
As the story goes I was introduced to my father prenatally- by my then long deceased grandfather Louis Reshin Frumer- in a dream. The only logical name for me, then, was Louis. Perhaps my father hoped for we to share the qualities of his mild mannered father, taken prematurely by heart attack 7 years before my birth. Perhaps he hoped we would share the same sort of relationship, where father earns respect of son through gentle, firm action and calm leadership. We'll see how it all turns out.
ReplyDeleteHYPHENATED, PRONOUNCED BOTH WAYS.
ReplyDeleteComet Hale-Bopp passed over Maine when I was being born. Naturally, my parents didn't want to name me Hale-bopp, nor did they prefer the name "C199501." They considered many names, but the favorites were Haley (vaguely after the Hale-Bopp comet), April (my due month), and Leah (it "sounded nice.") They decided against Haley when they thought people would get confused about "Haley's Comet", which had graced the sky in '94; and many baby girls born that year were given the name Haley. They wanted a more obscure name. So, April and Leah it was. Somewhere around Christmas, according to my mother, they decided on Leah. And thank god they didn't choose April, because I was a month premature and would have had the most awful time explaining the reason behind my name. I've only met two other Leahs in my life, one is my cats' veterinarian, the other works at Hannaford in Gorham. People get my name wrong all the time, they spell it like Lea Michelle spells her name, and people pronounce it like the princess from Star Wars. Over time I have come to accept that my name has two pronunciations, one, that my parents intended, the other, the one I cannot help and stopped caring about years ago. Lee-ugh. Lay-ugh. They both sound like my name.
Recently, I've decided that I am just as much from my mother's family as I am of my father's family. Tradition states that the father's surname shall be the child's, but I state that I will have the name I choose. I choose Leah Packard-Grams. Hyphenated, pronounced BOTH ways.