Wednesday, October 8, 2014

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 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.

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