What’s In A Name?’

Bloganuary writing promptWrite about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc. View all responses

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet to quote the great English man of words, William Shakespeare. My names mean I’m a small beautiful woman but as I was growing up I never felt as if I was, which in a way, I’m glad. Never relying on my looks means I’ve always tried to improve my education. Brains over Beauty.

Mr. Shakespeare’s quote can be read in one of two ways. A rose is just a rose, a thing of outstanding beauty which in a short space of time will fade. Its beauty remains in the eye of the beholder. The word rose is a symbol of a type of beauty. An English Rose is often used to describe white skin with a blush of pink. Yet, in the War of the Roses in Tudor England, two houses known as the White Rose of York and Red Rose of Lancaster went to war over the English throne for thirty-two years.

Even the beauty of a Rose has a dark side like the plant itself. As the saying tells us, There’s a rose between two thorns. Sleeping beauty’s castle was surrounded by a wall of roses as the castle and all its occupants slept for a hundred years. In that time, the princes of many lands died impaled on the thorns as they tried to reach the sleeping princess to wake her from her curse.

My three given names from which I can choose to call myself have been a curse to me. The second two are strangers to me. One belongs to my grandmother and only makes me think of her. It’s as though I’ve stolen part of her, so I can’t truly make it my own. My third name is a shade too feminine and creates in my mind a more girly version of myself that I would be uncomfortable being. She would wear short skirts and low-cut blouses, big hairstyles, long painted nails, and constantly touch up her makeup. Maybe, this version of me would have become a femme fatale and used her womanly wiles to drive men crazy to get what she wanted from life.

My first name isn’t even my own name. In as much as I wasn’t named for myself. It’s a haunting name given to me after the death of a much-wanted child. Every time I write my name, I’ve written his first. Every time my mother called my name, she spoke the ghost of her much mourned-for son first, and snapped my name on at the end with a single vowel. All of my life, I have had a shadow of an unlived life following me. Sometimes I feel his presence in how I think and feel. I wonder if his masculinity has dominated my life as he fights to live through me. I’ve never been one for wearing dresses, and makeup, and spending all day deciding what to wear when I’m the happiest wearing trousers, climbing trees, and being independent. I’ve always been a tomboy, wanting the freedom men have to choose for themselves which road through life to take. No one asks them when they are going to start a family. They are totally reliant on their own strength and don’t have to worry about a ticking body clock.

So what is in a name? For me, its a ghost.

Thank you for taking the time to read my blog.