To me, my name means a sense of humor. It is the blue sky with a nearing storm on a mountain top. The light airy snow in the dry peaks that tower over the minuscule world below.  

In a literal sense, my name has no real meaning. It is not generational to my heritage. Commonly, it is derived from the name John or Johnathan. but that is not where my name came from. My name isn’t John, Jonathan, or even Jackson. Just Jack.

It has a sharp feeling, not like a clean edge but like a broken rock with jagged lines. not like a blade made in a factory, the same as the one before. Rather like a one-of-a-kind stone. 

Yet Ive met countless other “Jacks”, But the name Jack describes me as I see myself, and in that way, it is the most unique a name could get, no one else is me, Sounds loud, looks tall and lanky, but also inviting. Jack is not just my name, it is who I want myself to be.

Other than what I make of it, there is no significance to my name, like a toy on an assembly line. In my opinion, it’s just a label people know me as, not as much a descriptor. People know me as a person, not as a word my parents chose to call me by a few years ago. I am not Jack, I am a deep canyon with no real end, only a few have seen the bottom, but also a tall peak that can be admired. 

The word itself is easy to say but doesn’t sound nice. Saying it is like rubbing two pieces of paper together or wood slapping on the ground. It sounds loud and disruptive — but it is my name and I have grown to like it.