…about your own name
I love my name. I’m not even bothered by the fact that my first name is sort of popular. I knew a few Andy’s growing up, but not enough to feel my name was commonplace. There were far more John’s and James’ around me.
I rarely say my name out loud. In fact, I sometimes catch myself after saying “Andy”. That’s my name? It sounds kind of weird, phonetically, I mean. Nasally, a little awkward sounding. No. Andy is fine. It’s not the name, but its initial I care most about.
You see, I have the greatest last name in the world, or at least, the greatest last name to be preceded by the initial “A”. I realized I was “a fluke” very early on, but when I tried to express this to the rest of my family, I was always rewarded with blank stares. Was it that they didn’t get it? Were they ashamed of that meaning of our last name? As a kid I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. My friends names were boring and meaningless in comparison.
I didn’t even mind the other definitions of “fluke”. Whale’s tail, cool. Anchor prong, whatever. Parasitic flatworm, now you’re talking. My name has influenced my attitude about the universe we live in on a fundamental, very rational level. Probability and chance have defined my interpretation of the world around me, and yet, I can’t help smiling when I think my name puts me on the upside of every coin. Although that’s completely irrational, of course.
(encouraged by writeoneleaf)