My name has always felt symmetrical. Even. Perfectly spelt with just four letters. It feels soft and appears simple, like a plain daisy in a field of fresh, green grass. 

But growing up, to me, this name has felt ordinary–unoriginal. It’s felt repetitive. And now I feel it no longer gains a response. 

I was almost named Wilhelmina, my great grandma’s name, Billy for short. My mom says she would’ve called me Mina, or Willy. When I hear Wilhelmina, I imagine the fairy gardens my own grandma made for me when I was little. I think of pixie dust and magic dancing across one’s fingertips. I smell the moist soil mixture of the Earth–musky tree scents, and see lush sage forests. But somehow I got stuck with Emma.  

My great grandma has grown old now, but not yet weary. She’s still got some of her wits left and is present in every conversation… as long as she can hear it. She loves to look at our pictures. I love to look at hers. There’s a specific perfume that my mom sent her for her birthday one year, and she wore the entire bottle. My mom made sure to take the last bit of the bottle home as a reminder of her this past Thanksgiving, but she also didn’t forget to send Grandma Billy a brand new bottle. It most definitely is a scent that fits her. It’s warm and cozy, with a very small hint of musk. Smelling it, away from her, almost feels like a thick hug.

My freshman year of high school I had 3 Emmas in at least four of my classes. I absolutely hated it. One of my teachers asked me if I wanted to go by something different. I remember saying my nickname from my hockey team, Cali. They declared me Cali because I’d moved from California and we had three other Emmas on the team other than me. He chuckled at the suggestion and I felt embarrassed after I’d said it even though it felt so natural and welcoming when in the atmosphere of my team. I ended up not going by that name, and just stuck with plain Emma. 

Plain Emma. Mellow yellow. Without excitement. Without shape or melody. Nothing that leads to fruitful thoughts. Just Emma. A piece of toast with bare spread, a bowl of spaghetti with no sauce, an empty classroom with no personality or color. It feels fake almost–like plastic or rubber.

I’ve been Emma Lu, Lulu, UU, Emma Rat, Big Emma, Tall Emma, Poopala, and M&M. But never have I felt at home with Emma. 

Never have I heard the name Emma, and been the one called for. And that’s one of the many reasons I’ve come to hate this name. It’s been asked for so many times, but never for me. When I hear it, it looks like the basic, fake robotic text you receive from a website or app, feels like sorry without the “I’m,” sounds like awkward conversations with no real meaning. 

I do not like my name, but I’ll never come to truly change it. It is still my name.