My name hasn’t been a rarity to this world since the Hanoverians took over the British some few hundred years ago. Now, I’m nothing more than number twenty-one on the most common names list. I am fabricated from decades of repetition and commonality.

My mother thought she was being poetic. Instead, she was being generic. I am no Emily Dickinson and I will not grow up to become an old woman with a rose. Emily is defined as a rival, one who is up for the challenge and always intimidating. Perhaps that what my mother was setting me up for: a life of fighting.

I am the one who always questions authority and puts up the most resistance. I am the one in the family who is bold and brave. No acceptance for defeat, always walking on thin ice. I have found the rival within but that’s not what she wanted.

The irony of it all is that I’m not as generic as the meaning of my name. My name is breaking away before I’m broken, an uncontrollable love in a world of insecurities. My name is the burst of color hidden in the black and white. It is the fiery spirit that melts away the cold. The rock and roll in a sea of silent decay. My name is the independence which sets me free.

I’m the one who’s got vibrant colored hair and is far too in love with horses for anyone in this world to believe. I am meant to break away from the things that society is conformed to.

It may be the most common name for an American girl but I will not let my name define me. Instead, I will define my name – Emily.