My name is a pale pink. Simple, sophisticated. I could pass
for pale pink. I feel more like a deep, royal blue. Loud while still being
quiet. I come across sort of shy, the type of girl who does all her homework on
Friday afternoon.
I’m not.
I’m loud,
I’m gross, I’m a little bit crazy and I procrastinate until the very last
second.
In French
it means petite. I’m anything but. When I was born, I was a whopping 10 lbs and
3 oz. Now, 12 years old, I’m 5"7', towering over all my friends. I get it from
my mom’s side. Both my mom and my aunt are 5’10”. But grandfather brings home
the gold with 6 feet and 6 inches. Not that my dad’s side doesn’t deserve any
credit. Neither he nor his parents are very tall, but his brother – my uncle –
is certainly up there.
My parents
chose my name for its sweet, soft sound. Like a ballerina barely touching the
floor as she leaps across the stage. Charlotte. Beautiful in every language.
It feels
very 19th century Europe. Ball gowns and powdered faces, rich young
girls with big blond curls. Sweet little voices singing out ballads in all the
romance languages. I’m a brunette, living in the 21st century, who
wears jeans and t-shirts and can’t sing for her life.
But,
despite everything I just said, I love my name and wouldn’t change it for the
world. Just like everyone else, I’ve gone and made it my own.
