a rose by any other name

i know my readers are waiting with baited breath to see what topic this crazed woman will bring them today. ta dah! i'm here, no need for clappings and hurrays. put down that tooter and settle down.

shakespeare, or more accurately romeo, said "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet". (yes. *raise single eyebrow* it is imperative to quote some literacy genius to begin with in order to sound more intelligent).

i've never been much of a fan of my own name. when i was much much younger, i used to cringe at my chinese name, a name that my father gave me. i thought it sounded silly, whimsical. later, as i grew up, i realise that my name was most often used by ladies of the night, laundryshops, floor washing detergent and even china's most protected animal specie. however, instead of hating it even more, i have come to learn to love it. a name that sounds like melodious music when spoken, like the sweet voice of a chime when the wind blows against it, a name that is never forgotten once said. i like the sound it makes when it rolls of the tongue of close friends. i don't use it much though and i like the idea that only those closest to me knows of it. it's at once both affectionate and warm.

in turn, i detested my english name. a name that is as common as it is unrepresentative of my character. a name that does not speak of the uniqueness of my being. during the earlier schooling years, i must have changed my name a million times; from the asexual patrick to the alluring caitlyn. nothing stuck. slowly, but surely, i understood that the name my parents gave me is a privilege, an honour, as terrible as it sounds. whilst my chinese name would be more illustrative of the aspirations my parents had for their child, the english was also a badge of the love they had for me. for each name, there holds a story; a story of how it came about, how much thought and love went into the process of selection, how it portrays the desires and hopes of the parents in the meaning. in the end, i gave in and kept the name my father gave me, or more accurately, his neighbour chose for me. *rolls eyes*

for 36 years, i used that name. everywhere that i went, everybody that i met, i introduced myself using that name.

only until recently did i realise that i am spelling it wrong. my father spells it with an 'i'. i spell it with an 'a'. notes addressed to me are glaringly written with an 'i' despite my numerous reminder on the contrary. i can't decide whether he has confused the original spelling of the word or he has always meant for it to be like that.

i am a little too old to be having an identity crisis.