My name. It’s comparable to a cold, snowy field. Nothing stands out. Not a tree, nor an animal in sight. A scent of burning wood lingers around it from a fire that is forever out of reach. In the early hours of the morning, bird calls echo across the frozen surface but don’t dare to fly through the still air that lies above the clearing. 

 Like the snow that melts and the wildflowers that bloom, the name can be softened. But no matter how the seasons change, the field’s natural state will always be overgrown grass blanketed in snow, unaffected by the distant sun. 

The chilling breeze and crunch of snow associated with the field are not what distinguishes it. No, there’s a story in its past that makes this piece of land a middle ground. A compromise. 

Alexis Irene Vondrak; a forced compromise on a legal document, but still an agreement. And all compromise begins with conflict. 

Who would’ve thought that naming their third child would have produced such an issue for parents who have already practiced the act twice before? My name was not the origin of the fighting, it was not the first field the two had trampled over, it was just another location of battle in a long war.  

A simple perspective on the issue is my Dad liked the name Madeline and my Mom preferred the name Olivia. Zoom out a little and you see that my Mom did not like the name Madeline because my Dad was set on calling me Maddy, a label that would imply grudges and frustration with the harsh “d” sound that dominates the name. She wanted to give me a strong name that softened for a few people, not a soft name that hardened against everyone. Zoom out a lot and you see the muddy, deep tracks that brought them to this point of disagreement. 

You may study one footprint to see my Dad quitting his job and trading in his 401K to buy motorcycles while my Mom remained at work. In another, you see him on his favorite recliner in the living room, TV on and streaming the History Channel while a nanny is taking care of my siblings in the kitchen. 

Resentment accumulated between my parents like dirty dishes did when my Mom was out of town on business. Dialogue proved to be useless when nobody could place themself in the other’s shoes and truly listen to what was being said. So they drifted away from one another in silence.

In the middle of the field is where the two pairs of tracks continue to separate and show my Mom, signing my birth certificate “Alexis Irene”, my Dad nowhere in sight. The name had never been spoken between the two of them. The compromise in it was that my middle name was my Dad’s mother’s, but other than that, my naming was an independent act, similar to parenting. 

Regardless of his dissatisfaction, my Dad still signed the certificate and the two pairs of boot prints continued making their own paths in the snow until they were headed in completely separate directions.  

Everything fell into place how it’s supposed to be. 

No matter the season, whether it’s snow or daisies blanketing the field, Alexis or Lexie labeling me, the footsteps remain. I’m a product of two people whose paths are better off uncrossed. The sun still rises and the wind still blows, but the field still stands.