My Name

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 19^th 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 21^st 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.