Hello, my name is Sandy. But I suppose you already figured that out. What you many not know, however, is how I got my name. Well, that’s not really an interesting story. My Parents, still being new to the English language, didn’t know what English name to give me. So, they decided to choose from a pool of names of the people they knew. In the end, they went with my Dad’s work friend’s name. Sandy. Possibly because it was the easiest to pronounce.
Did I mention that work friend was a male?
Not that I mind or that anything is wrong with it. I guess I just find it interesting when a name can be used for either male or female.
Anyway, I never really paid much attention to the importance of a name. More specifically, the importance of my own name. It doesn’t come attached with any special meaning or reference. Unless you think ‘consisting, covered or containing sand’ is special. I personally don’t.
I remember one New Year’s Eve many years ago. My then-boyfriend had invited me to hang out at a place I didn’t like with people I didn’t want to spend time with (fun, right?). I told him I didn’t want to go, which made him angry. I wasn’t stopping him from spending time with those people. I was more than happy for him to be out and to have fun without me. I just wanted a quiet night for myself. He didn’t see it from my perspective. He
demanded to know asked if I was his girlfriend or his friend. Instead of having an argument with him then and there, I remained calm and responded, “I’m Sandy” and hung up on him.
(I was informed days later that this guy had called me many colourful names that night.)
So while I don’t find anything special about my name, it’s become the simplest way of defining myself. Maybe that’s the power of names?
[I have written this post as part of the Weekly Writing Challenge this week.]