My given name is Gaelic, or Irish, for crooked nose or crooked river. In my head, my name is frustrating. It’s someone who wants something. It’s my Father asking for help outside. It’s my Mother calling for help with the dishes. It’s the name I get yelled at me from across the house. When I hear my name, I have to put my life on hold for someone else.

Crooked nose. I’m not Gaelic. I’m not even Irish. My name was chosen with no regard for me.  I have nothing connecting me and my name. Only that it is what was chosen for me.My name was chosen as a joke.

My Father. He thought it would be funny. It doesn’t even apply anymore. When he was in his 20’s, he was in an accident. A skiing accident. He hit a tree and broke his nose. For the third time. His nose was angled left and down for the ten years before I was born. He saw it fit to name me after his disfigured nose. Imagine being named after a nose. How strange it is knowing that how you stand out from the rest of the world is by being called a nose.

I got my revenge for this when I was five. I loved jumping on the bed. When my father was asleep I wanted to surprise him. I got on the bed. I started jumping. Jumping on his face. Broken nose. His nose bent back into shape. My name was no longer tied to my father’s nose.

My name has a sound. Structure. Sharp C. After the harsh beginning is smooth sailing. A sound like a green valley after snowy harsh mountains. Like a sudden change from a hurricane to light breeze. Like my personality. Getting to know me is a pain. I have harsh boundaries at first. Then I open up, and become, I hope, better to be around.

We have become inseparable, my name and I. I wouldn’t change it. My name has a story. I am not my name. My name is me. I have the ability to change its meaning as I please. When people first see me, they see my name.