My name feels like a word slapped onto a human and left there. Chosen by my parents for a reason unknown even to them, Allyson means honorable. Noble. Righteous. Good. Decent. Moral. Worthy. It is a label of what they wanted me to become.
Hello, my name is Nick. My parents didn't have any real reason as to why they chose my name. They just picked it because they liked the name. The name Nick comes from the Greek name Νικολαος (Nikolaos) which means "victory of the people“. I dont really know why my parents picked the name I guess they liked it. My name really doesn't mean anything to me and I kind of like the name.
My first and middle name, Justin Mingtao, seems a little like a clashing pair of words. There is no way to say them very well together, as they are of two different languages. They do not flow. They do not blend. They do not cooperate.
I always feel a little uncomfortable when someone says my first and middle name together, as they are always so confident with the pronunciation of Justin, then they just pause for a second, and sort of look at the paper they are reading off of, trying to figure out The best way to pronounce my name through their own standards.
In Hebrew, my name means pleasant. It’s a name that can be translated into the 3 languages that are important to my family: Hebrew, Japanese, and English. When I hear it in Hebrew, it doesn’t have a certain feel. But in English and Japanese, I think it describes me perfectly. It’s a collage of the colors of my life mixed together, creating a beautiful piece of art. It describes me in one word, my characteristics, feelings, and ways of life all at once.
If you look hard enough, you can find the meaning of my name, which isn’t much of a meaning at all. It’s just ‘wide island’, and that’s when you spell it differently. It’s simply a variant of the original English name. If you looked at only one or two places, you’d find that it’s the capital city of Australia. Though it’s a common, vague name, Sydney suits me. It goes with me because there aren’t any other names that would match. Not that I can think of, anyway.
When my mother sent me to school my first year, she gave me four things to carry in my colorful backpack: a hand-packed lunch, slender wooden pencil, wide-lined notebooks, and my favorite book.
The lunch tasted like home and reminded me of my younger brother and sister, who would hopefully miss playing with me before they complained about taking a nap, and I could share the little edible treasures with my peers around me, creating instant friends with cookies.
I remember last year, I wrote all these essays talking about philosophy relating to human thoughts and the environment. That really helped me reflect on what kind of writer I am. It opened a whole new door within my mind that I didn't even know existed.
At first, I didn't think I could write essays like those. Once I started, I realized I had a lot to say and all these logical ideas started pouring out. Obviously I had to end the essays, which was sort of a crap shoot at times because there was still so much left to type out. I was pretty amazed with myself for coming up with such wonderful pieces of work.