My name is a long story about who I am. My name is like the color blue. It is overcast skies and crisp air after a rain. My name is me. It’s brightly colored leaves waltzing on autumn breezes. It will be the word that represents me to the rest of the world. My name is me.
In Gaelic my name means good looking or graceful, in Aborigine it means a boomerang, one that doesn’t return. I’ve never liked these descriptions because they always seem far too simple for a name. A name is something that will always be with us until the day we die. It will describe us, and represent us, and give the rest of the world proof that we ever existed. I also just never really liked being called a boomerang. Some how a curved piece of wood feeling lost and lonely out in the middle of the Australian outback just doesn’t seem to fit me.
My name doesn’t have a long and spectacular history. It has no special moment attached and it is no family heirloom, dusty with age. It was just unearthed one day by my father, listening to some old rock station when a folk singer by that name was played. It wasn’t even Kylie Minogue. Just some unknown musician who happened to be played that day. My dad can’t even remember the name of the song anymore.
But I’ve always liked my name. Even though I will never be the proud owner of a Kylie engraved pencil or pen, or some other miscellaneous object. Because my name is forever being forgotten or overshadowed by Kyle or Kaylie, like some sort of misfit. It is always pronounced wrong and spelled incorrectly, all because people seem to automatically skip over the i. But at least I know that not many people have my name, which makes me special.
So to me my name means the number twelve. It’s like High Mountain peaks capped with snow or a long train whistle blowing in the night like a far off song. It is twinkling city lights as seen from a high up window. It consists of oil paints, mystery novels, movies, music and happy memories. My name is me.