|My first A paper in Leogrande's class
||[Sep. 28th, 2006|08:39 pm]
And Sometimes Y and W|
My name is Andrew and Andrew ends in a w. W is not able to warm its listener with a tender glide of an r or an l, or to shock its listener with a crisp bite of a t or a p, or to humble its listener with a tiny whisper of an f or a v. Andrew does not rhyme with anything, no matter how hard I try to make pandroo a word. This six-letter word that writes itself on name tags cannot even call itself different, an adjective my mother would often use to describe me: “You’re the one who eats strawberry ice cream merely because everyone else is eating chocolate”. Andrew is boring, awkward, and common, which all add up to a burden in my eyes.
I often wonder how my life would be (the opportunities I could have had, the options I would have chosen, the paths I should have taken) had I been named something different. Born with Michael, well, you can call me Mike and I would be a football star, catching every pass, scoring every touchdown, winning every game. Born with Tyler, well, you can call me Ty and I would be a surfer dude, catching all those rays, riding all those waves, getting all those girls. Born with Oliver, well, you can call me Oliver and I would be an intellect, catching each nuance, deriving each equation, analyzing each approach.
In my boredom with Andrew, I have begged my friends to give me nicknames, resulting in such mindless tags as Druuu (with three u’s), Min-star (from my last name Minster), and even Optimus Prime (yes, from the cartoon “Transformers”). These names, while not printed on my birth certificate and not what I’d want my parents to call me, were arrangements of letters that fit me more than Andrew could. They were creative, witty, smart, childish, and different, everything A-n-d-r-e-w cannot amount to.
Who am I? I wish I could respond with Olympic champion, or Prince Charming, or musical genius, or all-around best guy. Up until now, I have listed and described everything I am not. I am not a Renaissance man, I am not a robot car, and I am not perfect. Over time, I have learned that my name, while something to identify with, cannot measure my worth; I have grown to appreciate this six-letter word ending in that awkward w like I will grow to appreciate my lover’s taste in music. And even though Andrew defines me when introduced to someone, this name will not defy me.