Something I wrote for fun (non-nerdy)

“My Name” inspired by Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street Written by Ms. Wakefield

In French, my first name is a song, a bird soaring through the sky. In English, my last name is a city, a compound word.  One word breathes beauty, the others mixing volume and noise.  Dissonance.  Discord. Julie Nicole Wakefield. It means dusk during sunset. The mixture of blue, pink, and gray crashing in the sky.  The sight you see while driving in 5pm traffic. Horns honking over tired eyes.  Radios blaring, deafening eardrums.  Crashing on the couch. Waiting for that second wind to kick in. The sound of my mother making dinner in the kitchen, “Chicken or fish tonight, dear?” It is filled with youth, beauty, and vivacity. A journey of growing up, while managing to stay young.

It was a last minute decision. A second choice. Almost Amy Elizabeth instead. Almost a beautiful melody, instead of a song full of discord. That name is a fluid motion. Mine like a mismatched outfit. But I was a joyful surprise; a family who tried to be three, four, five but always stayed two. Until me. Never, my mother said. Never, but then I came out early. A mix of two, my father says.  Light English skin, green eyes, and curly blonde hair.  A taller, paler version of my mother.  A louder, opinionated version of my father. Lonely in a family who tried to be four, five, but always stayed three.

Our house stayed small, quiet and empty.  They tried to have a Bryan, an Amy, a someone for me to play with.  To fight with. To argue over who got the car Friday night, and the new dress for prom. To compete over every grade, sport, and hobby with. But I remained the oldest, the youngest, the only. A mixture of personalities. Selfish, yet thoughtful. Together, yet scattered. Focused, yet undisciplined.  Who would I have been if our house had been filled to the brim, like a steaming cup of coffee from Starbucks? A leader? Someone else’s shadow?  I can’t imagine myself as the oldest. The responsible one. The wise one. I can’t imagine myself, with a Bryan or an Amy. Tagging along.

I’d like to change my name to Juliet, Shakespeare’s muse.  Much more fitting. Sophisticated and poised. Wise. Compassionate. All of my good qualities, but none of my flaws. Juliet is a leader, the girl everyone loves. The epitome of grace, so maybe I’d be less clumsy. Plenty of Romeos begging to ring the doorbell, yet surprisingly independent.  Sounds like me. Juliet sounds like a thousand cheerful church bells ringing on a Sunday morning; looks like billions of sparkly stars.  Too bad there’s a long line at the DMV.