A Name's Inheritance

"Names can be prayers. Incantations to conjure your presence. To mediate between you and the world."

-Toni Morrison, Beloved

My name, a melody of five letters, is a harmony of my parents' names. The first two notes are from my dad's, the last three from mom's. They love to play it at every opportunity. It means boundless, limitless, which is ironic considering how it always seemed to shrink my world.

The first time I met someone who shared this melody was on a movie screen. I was eight or nine, mesmerized by this actress who had exploded onto the scene. We shared a name, but that was all. She was beautiful, a whirlwind of confidence, the opposite of everything I was. I spent hours scouring the internet, desperate to know everything about her, this reflection of myself who seemed to exist in a different universe. It was through one of her interviews that I learned my name had a deeper meaning, a secret my parents never shared. Up until then, it was just a symbol of their love, a love that felt both suffocating and comforting. Now, I occasionally revisit those interviews, a bittersweet reminder of a childhood fascination.

The second time I encountered my name in the real world was in third grade. My parents, with a promotion and a raise, could finally afford a "rich people's school" as the others called it. It was a world of new teaching methods, unfamiliar classrooms, and teachers who appeared only to deliver lessons. I liked it, these cool teachers and the novelty of parental help with homework, but I was utterly friendless. For a whole year, the confines of the classroom became my universe. I wouldn't even step into the hallway unless absolutely necessary. Missing school wasn't an option – that meant asking for missed work, and with no friends, that was a terrifying prospect. But on November 11th, 2014, illness kept me home. Schoolwork loomed, unfinished, and daunting. My only option was the quiet girl with the same name who sat behind me. We were assigned seats based on roll numbers – me at six, and her at seven. She was different – cool and collected, but overshadowed by a friend who seemed to dislike me intensely. Necessity trumped fear, and I approached her. We spent a stolen forty minutes in the library, huddled over worksheets, a brief connection that vanished for eight years. We reconnected in eleventh grade, and transformed into academic rivals, forever neck-and-neck for top marks and teacher approval. We never became friends, but there was a silent understanding, a shared experience only those with the same name could truly grasp or at least I’d like to think so. But she still was the one who was always up to spend 40 minutes with me whenever I asked her to and that leaves me to wonder if she thinks about me.

Path with another person sharing my name crossed again in 12th grade. She was a new student in the 11th grade, while I held the title of sports captain. She? Deputy cultural captain, the perfect counterpart to my athletic focus. For a few whirlwind months, we worked side-by-side on massive school events. That's when it hit me – the girl with my name was an entire different person.

She towered over me, a vibrant picture of health with hair that seemed to go on forever. Makeup, not just the basic kajal and lip balm I clung to, but a full display of color and confidence. Outgoing, she knew every gossip in the corridors. She could make people erupt in laughter, something I could only dream of. While academics weren't her forte, she charmed teachers and captivated audiences during public speeches. There were moments I couldn't help but wish I was more like her. But just like the others, the friendship remained out of reach.

Fourth grade brought another encounter with my name twin. A friend, somehow connected to her in the school's social web, meant we often shared an uncomfortable bench space. We weren't exactly friends, more like classmates united by a strange coincidence.

Then came midterms. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at her EVS score – a respectable 51.5 out of 60. Me? I was ecstatic with my own 51. But something shifted that day. Witnessing her genuine disappointment sparked a strange fire in me. Maybe I didn't just want to score decently; maybe I wanted to push myself, to excel alongside her.

From then on, we were study buddies. While I never managed to consistently outscore her overall, subject by subject, we battled for dominance. More importantly, a powerful friendship bloomed. We were confidantes, sharing routines, and secrets whispered late into the night. Our laughter filled countless phone calls. We were best friends, two souls bound by a name and an unspoken understanding.

Then came the gut punch of 10th grade. She moved away. Birthdays are our only connection now, a bittersweet exchange of messages across the miles. It's not that we don't care, but a fear of interrupting her studies hangs heavy in the air. She once confessed the same, a mutual shyness that keeps us from reaching out. We linger in that space between past and present, two halves of a story waiting to be continued.

It still baffles me to think that there are probably more people around the world with the same name as me who would be so different from me. It intrigues me to no end to think of myself as them and then quickly kick the thought off my brain. My parents still like to think of my name as their counterpart and I still like to think of my name as something having a deeper meaning and something I share with thousands of others that I inherited from my parents.