Emma.
(un)Exceptionally
Mediocre and
Moderately
Average.
It’s a name that can hold a million personalities. It doesn’t reveal mine. Short and blunt, it allows me to hide – no LOOK-AT-ME extravagancy whatsoever.
The naming of the almighty and fabulous Emma Spooner isn’t exactly almighty or fabulous. My parents thought of a few names, filtered out the Gertrudes and Corneliuses and eventually settled on Emma. It doesn’t even mean anything significant – according to a questionable website on the internet, my name means “romance and mother”. Except I’m not a mom, and rom-coms make me want to vomit.
Emma. Four letters of pure normality…and in this way, my name is nothing like me.
Yet in another way, I suppose my name suits who I am. It’s quiet, like me when I first meet someone. But soon, “I like your pants” turns into singing Beyonce at the top of our lungs in the middle of the Canned Goods aisle in Market Basket and BAM. KAPOW. Abbra-freaking-cadabra, THAT is where my last name comes in.
Spooner. It tickles the throat on the way up. It purses lips into kissy faces and brings back memories of past sisters. It reminds me of the music in my blood and the rattatatat of the snare. And it reminds me of how I’m my own. Captain Spooney, Spoons. Here’s the name that wraps up my personality in a neat little utensil-shaped bow: silly and melodic and eccentric. It’s memorable and mine. It’s cheesy, but what’s a world with a little mozzarella, right?
Emma can hold a million personalities, and until I burst out of MY bubble, it doesn’t reveal mine.
