My Name
Caroline. Three syllables, eight letters, one person.
139,415 of us share this title.
We are the 450th most popular first name, but do we care? Not really.
A spoken name is just a series of sounds that our mouths make that correspond to a series of shapes on a piece of paper that spell it out. Calling someone by their social security number would be more descriptive, but our society doesn't function that way, thankfully. Apparently, when it comes to the British, Scottish, and American meanings, we are defined as manly.
Does this matter?
No, because one does not associate a person with the adjectives that go with their name, they create their own definitions. I'll introduce myself to any Caroline I meet because the back of my mind is telling me that they're just like me. Even though my name is the only thing I own that is used more by others than me, I am attached to it for some odd reason.
Because it's mine.
Because I love it.
Because no one can take it from me.
Because no matter what some random dictionary says about the etymology of the name Caroline, I've attached bits of my own personality to this common name and given it a definition of its own.
So are names important?
Weirdly, yes.
They shape the way we judge people based on encounters with that name before. I'd die for anyone named Ella or Vivienne without a question. I wouldn't do the same for anyone named Katie. I'd extend loving arms to any person named Scottie because it brings back memories of two girls sitting on the roof of a white-brick house at 3AM listening to a spring concert dance playlist under the stars of a quiet night.
I wonder what people think when they hear my name murmured from a distance.
I wonder what my foes think.
I know for a fact that my parents didn't name me after some girl that they knew in college, I was named after my grandmother. She didn't go by her first name either. We had so much in common. However, I would never get rid of Margaret as my first name.
It's the real me.
It's not the show I put on for everyone else to see.
It's my raw emotion and personality that never sees the light of day.
Anna Quindlen describes a similar concept in her essay "The Name is Mine" when she talks about the two versions of herself. There is her version of herself, and then there's the version of herself that everyone around her sees.
Everyone has these two split perceptions, even Beowulf.
The Geats and the Danes may see him as a ruthless, blood-lusting warrior, but he may see himself as a humble defender.
In the end, there is only one version one perception, one type of you that matters. It's the way you see yourself. If you believe that you can be something, you will be, because confidence is nature's greatest tool and failure's greatest enemy.
139,415 of us share this title.
We are the 450th most popular first name, but do we care? Not really.
A spoken name is just a series of sounds that our mouths make that correspond to a series of shapes on a piece of paper that spell it out. Calling someone by their social security number would be more descriptive, but our society doesn't function that way, thankfully. Apparently, when it comes to the British, Scottish, and American meanings, we are defined as manly.
Does this matter?
No, because one does not associate a person with the adjectives that go with their name, they create their own definitions. I'll introduce myself to any Caroline I meet because the back of my mind is telling me that they're just like me. Even though my name is the only thing I own that is used more by others than me, I am attached to it for some odd reason.
Because it's mine.
Because I love it.
Because no one can take it from me.
Because no matter what some random dictionary says about the etymology of the name Caroline, I've attached bits of my own personality to this common name and given it a definition of its own.
So are names important?
Weirdly, yes.
They shape the way we judge people based on encounters with that name before. I'd die for anyone named Ella or Vivienne without a question. I wouldn't do the same for anyone named Katie. I'd extend loving arms to any person named Scottie because it brings back memories of two girls sitting on the roof of a white-brick house at 3AM listening to a spring concert dance playlist under the stars of a quiet night.
I wonder what people think when they hear my name murmured from a distance.
I wonder what my foes think.
I know for a fact that my parents didn't name me after some girl that they knew in college, I was named after my grandmother. She didn't go by her first name either. We had so much in common. However, I would never get rid of Margaret as my first name.
It's the real me.
It's not the show I put on for everyone else to see.
It's my raw emotion and personality that never sees the light of day.
Anna Quindlen describes a similar concept in her essay "The Name is Mine" when she talks about the two versions of herself. There is her version of herself, and then there's the version of herself that everyone around her sees.
Everyone has these two split perceptions, even Beowulf.
The Geats and the Danes may see him as a ruthless, blood-lusting warrior, but he may see himself as a humble defender.
In the end, there is only one version one perception, one type of you that matters. It's the way you see yourself. If you believe that you can be something, you will be, because confidence is nature's greatest tool and failure's greatest enemy.
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