My name

A last minute choice of name came up with and given to me on my date of birth; not given to me by my folks.  I was going to be Amber Rae, but instead I got stuck with a name that gets spat out like something foul.  Jessica.  Forceful and ending in silence, something I do not like.1

Spoken out loud it brings a feeling of familiarity, of a sweet memory of times not often thought of.  A time of innocence, when I was young.  When my mother spoke my name with pride and love.  Nevermore. 2

A Hebrew name meaning wealthy; which is something I’ve never had the luxury to be.  Or at least in a sense of money.  For my heart is full of wealth of a kind that cannot be bought or sold.  But never-the-less it is still wealth.3

When I hear the name different colors come to mind.  Soft colors used and thought of when the mentioning of a new baby, or the color of a tree out in my back yard with shades of gray, white, brown, and dark green.  A texture starting out smooth and ending rough; getting warped with time and knowledge. With no gap in between the two. 4

Common.  Like that “lucky number” seven; which seems to be every one’s favorite number.  A name with no real meaning to me; nothing special about it.  I wasn’t named in memory of another, nor from some place inside a mothball-smelling book.  A name just said by a friend that’s stuck on me. Like a label.  A title given to me along with all the other Jessicas in the world. Insignificant. 5

But so many names can form from this one.  Not as many that comes with a name like Elizabeth, but enough to please me. Jess, Jessie, Jessie-Rae, Ica, J bird, and with no connection except for the way I put my hair up in a ponytail, Troll.  All these name, even Troll, have a different tone, but none of them have one that sounds bitter and ends in silence. Instead they ring, like the sound of a hand chime.  Even Troll has a roll at the end of it that keeps going on like a distance drum roll, but none of these are my given name. My title. My label.6

Though hearing your four-year-old son say my name makes me smile.  Pronouncing ever syllable with care, as if afraid he might leave an important part of me out. “Jess…ic…ca,” he says with pride and love.  He is making me a part of his memories for times he has not yet thought of.  And that makes my name worth keeping; worth accepting. Even though I wish my name was something more that signified me as in individual, and isn’t always spat out. I leave it be, to forever label me.  7