My Name

“Typical American name.”

I remember a boy saying, as we conversed such things while curled up in couches at my previous school.

I protested, but knew it to be true.

Typical.

My name means pure. But who is there that can boast of that high honor?

I was Katherine.

That is...until I knew better.

Katherine for girls who wear pink.

Katherine for ruffles.

Katherine for braids and dolls and tea parties.

I refused to have part with such a name.

I was Kate.

Kate for explorations.

Kate for climbing trees with boys.

Kate for skateboards and scars and big ugly bruises.

Katherine was a sissy. Kate was strong.

And it stuck.

I don't particularly mind it, though the connotation is vastly different now than then.

Kate.

Kate for short.

Kate for playfulness and uniqueness and hot pink hairbows.

Kate for black nails and white dresses.

Kate for orchids and the breath of green and music notes.

Kate for plumb and electric blue.

Kate for the dousing of turpentine.

Kate for eccentricity.

Kate for rain that takes away makeup.

Kate for playing hard to get.

Kate for getting captured.

Kate for swing sets and sparrows and Chuck Taylors.

Kate for a best friend named Jesus.

Kate.

But no one thinks those thing when my name is said.

They think how it rhymes with “ate” and is one syllable.

When 18 hits, I would like to change my name to

Adelaide.

Adelaide for two-hundred years ago.

Adelaide for moon-lit waters and trees that grow out of brick.

Adelaide.

Because I was not meant for this world.