My name did not arrive
with much thought.
My parents knew right away.
No doubt.
There were no
thousand page
baby name books.
It was simple.
I was named
for my dad and grandpa.
Even though
there wasn't much thought
the meaning behind it
is priceless.
They're goal setters
and hard workers.
I must live
up to their standards.
Something special
makes my name unique.
At the end
stand three roman numerals
like columns
supporting ancient Greek
masterpieces.
Or like totem poles
standing high up.
Each representing a generation
and that generation's story.
I will never regret
nor want to change my name.
The only way it will be
modified
is if I
name my son after me.
Even then
it wouldn't change.
Just a different variation.
Another generation.
Another column.
Another story.
Another totem pole.
The name
that means so much
is
James P. Higgins III.
-Jimmy Higgins
I always feel so awkward,
when that name
falls off their tongue
like a droplet of water
finally reaching the
ground.
It washes around
inside my ears,
and I can only whisper,
its Mary Beth.
They look at me
with their eyes asking
are you really
who it says here
and I look back
saying no
I'm not.
Mary Mitchell.
That was my dad’s sister.
A girl who looked just like
me
but was timid, and shy.
Like soft mist
when she passed.
Barely noticeable.
But she was a girl
who died
in an accident
at only 14
in the car
with a drunk driver.
All I have to say,
is I am not that girl.
I am Mary Beth Mitchell.
Adding another
personality.
A girl named Beth,
the fire cracker,
sparking up conversations
right and left.
I like to think
that inside,
I'm Beth.
But outside,
I'm Mary.
Living the life
she never could.
-Mary Beth Mitchell
Francesca.
That’s my name.
I was supposed
To be named
Gabriella.
But my dad
Wanted otherwise.
So now I’m
francesca.
I can’t picture myself
As a gabriella.
The girly-girl.
Wearing pink
Hollister shirts.
Listening to the
Jonas brothers.
Saying “like” after
Every word.
No.
I’m Francesca.
The punk girl
Wearing black
And studded belts.
listening to
metallica.
Not afraid to
speak my mind.
I’m francesca.
And I wouldn’t want it
Any other way.
-francesca Beller
It sounds strong,
not noisy,
not loud.
Quiet, but with strength.
Like a wave about to break.
My name means man.
The first man to walk on Earth.
My name sounds older,
not really ancient,
not really new.
Classic.
It sounds smart,
but not some incredible genius.
It sounds serious,
but still having a sense of humor.
My name sounds solid,
Like it won’t be blown away.
It sounds tough,
like someone who could take a punch
then give one back.
My name sounds like a survivor.
It’s gonna stay around.
My name is Adam.
-Adam Scherbenske
My name is Jacob Hamm
Jacob means “held by the heel.”
I don’t know why.
When my sweet Grandparents
say my delicious name
it sounds like good, summer days
of playing and then taking a
nice, refreshing swim in the
spine-chilling, icy cold pool.
Jacob will be a highly-respected name
right after I stop global warming,
Become the one and only President,
win the octillion dollar jackpot
in the lottery,
become the richest man in the world,
and finally become the lead supreme court justice.
Now if my name was long, strange and different
like Eugene, I would be getting all A+
and having exactly… sub-zero friends and I would go
to the old rundown retirement home
playing chess with a
world war one veteran
instead of playing basket ball or soccer.
I would not want a different name.
My loving, kind parents gave me the best name
a hot, good looking kid like me could get
I would not want a different name.
-Jacob Hamm