My Name

     In English fractions of my name descend from royalty. In Hebrew it means House of Figs, or the hallowed land where Lazarus was brought back to life. It is life like. Bright, energetic life, blazing like a billion gleaming orange sunbeams. The color of sunrise. The symbol of a new morning trying to prove that it is ready to face a new day, come what may, beckoning cheerfully to all and sharing promised warmth.
 
   It is a fresh new face, my name. Unlike my mom, my grandma, or her mother. Even though I’m younger than the whole lot of them, my name is older. Ancient. Tracing back to Queen Elizabeth, though I am just Beth alone. Not always lonely alone. Simply independent. The only part of my given name related to family is my middle one. A memory of the caring Grandma that I haven’t met. All I can do is Hope. Hope that one day my name will bring happy remembrances to my family. Like Grandma for mine or Elizabeth for the world.
   
     Elizabeth the I. Leading, fiercely like a lion, but calmly calculating. She conquered a Spanish fleet. Ironic for my name to be partially descended from hers, when she willed her cousin, my ancestor to be killed. I would’ve liked to have seen the passion she had for her people. The witty way she secretly allowed pirates to commandeer her enemy’s ships-- without protest. Silently amused, yet cunningly neutral. Accomplished herself in capturing subject’s loyal hearts.
   
    And for centuries since, she has maintained her dignity and fame. Remembered-- I wonder if she ever resented her life, pondered alone over whether her glass of life was half empty or half full. Queen or pawn, in the end we will all return to the same box. Beth. Though I have inherited only part of her name, I’ve inherited her passion for life, and have in my own way, have come off conqueror.

     At home, my name is never mine. At home, I’m seen through my Dad’s eyes like I was sixteen years ago. A bouncy baby kangaroo. His little jouncing Joey-- Jojo. Many nicknames blot out my own, as if it’s a simple word to be covered and replaced like white-out on paper. At school, fellow students create their own names for me. It’s as if I’m a whited-out canvas that needs more colorful paint. Fans croon as white and black face painted singers rock out, belting my name to adoring adults. In their mouths, it solemnly sounds as lonely as the moon. A name without a home to come back to.
There is no other word in the English language to describe who I am, save it be my own name. I am who I am. My name means me. When someone calls it, it’s like a sounding trumpet chord, telling the tune of my soul to those who care to listen. Yes. I will always be me.