I Listened On The Mirror

I got into the small car and started it, hoping I was doing the right thing. The rumble of the car was the opposite of calming, as I needed it to be, I was going to help my love-Clyde Barrow. The small car shuddered and then stopped as I pulled up to the jail, I sat in the car thinking before getting out, what if I get caught. I ignored these thoughts and got out of the car. I walked to the back Clyde’s stolen V8 Ford, I popped the trunk hearing the *click* as it opened. I grabbed a handgun and hid it in the pocket hidden by the hem of my dress, the dress immediately felt heavier. My dress sweeping the dirt off the ground, distracted me as I sauntered- to avoid any accusations- towards the door of the jailhouse. I walked in with a bright, welcoming smile- waving at the guards as I stopped at the secretary’s desk.

As I looked up, the sky was dark the sidewalk illuminated by the streetlights. The sound of crickets and cars echoing through my ears. I walked home that night, tears in my eyes. I was leaving, I couldn’t handle it anymore. The meds, doctors, psychiatrists nothing was working, our lives were in constant danger. By the time I got home the car was gone. By the time, I finished packing it was dawn. The sun creeping in through the shutters. For the next couple of days, I crashed at Jason’s before I headed South. I heard my cell ringing, it was mom… I let it go to voicemail.

Most of our lives we have been called a certain name, whether it was given to us by birth or a nickname that friends have called us, but each of us has a meaning behind our names and I am going to talk about mine. My first name is Jacob, which is a very common boy’s name in this current period of time. I have known Dumont, my last name, to be a French surname because of my father’s side coming from France and Italy. Furthermore, both my first name and last name have meaning of some sort and that is what I will go over in my essay.

I have normally regarded my name as simply boring. Samuel is easily pronounced, easily shortened, and incredibly ordinary. I understand my name holds sentimental value to those closest to me and I do identify with some of the characteristics embedded within it. While I know that names do not define personality, I cannot help but to find annoyance within multiple aspects of my birth-given label.Weirdly enough, I know my name fits me because no matter how hard I have tried, I cannot imagine being referred to as anything other than “Sam”.

It was a hard rain that woke him up, the pitter patter on the windows and the clunking against the metal shackles. Tennent lifted his head off his blocky, drink stained pillow and headed toward the door. The sound of glass breaking whistled behind him as the liquor bottles sprung off his bed, being dragged by the blanket he held onto, like the pain and regret that were held in the shards would always follow him. He finally reached the door as he turned the bolts to lock as he always forget too, and started crawling to the mini refrigerator that hid in the back corner of the room. As Tennent crawled to the iced bar he remembered why he was only supposed to stay in this over expensive motel for a few nights, having to help his mother though the latest and recent flu that’s been going around.

“Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to

My father named me before I was born. Before the thought of me even existed. Ever since he could remember he wanted a son, and he wanted him to bear the name Zachary. He can’t explain why he had that desire,

Parents specifically chose names for their children that become who society sees one as. A name relates to one culture and is part of one's fingerprint. Fingerprints are unique. In Drew Taylor’s play Only Drunks and Children tell the Truth, Janice is a character who refuses to connect with her true culture as seen because her name changes from Grace (birth name) to Janice (foster family name).

____________QUOTE____________ 1. “‘What’s your name?’ ‘Um…’ I don’t know why I hesitate. But “Beatrice” just doesn’t sound right anymore. … .A new place, a new name.

At the most basic level, a name is a primitive representation of one’s identity. Lonnie’s name was predetermined before he even had individual, unprecedented characteristics. Changing Lonnie’s name to Aaron is effective in homogenizing him into the general public and in disconnecting and segregating him from his paternal, biological family. The name Lonnie is what makes him who he is, and in removing that, Sister Ignacia is able to forcibly cause Lonnie to question his personal identity. By removing his name and sense of belonging, connection, family, intimacy, and inclusion, his self-actualization has no fundamental basis on which to expand and evolve.

Junior’s difficulty over what name he should introduce himself as presents a challenge of navigating in his new society. The name junior is a common and

I did not like the person that I was; Roodelyne Pierrelus in my defense symbolizes nothing positive. I wished my father had given me the name he planned for me ahead

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not

    Names are a terrible way to understand someone’s identity because names are regularly replicated. In my sixth grade class, there were three Mollys. We all had different backgrounds, different religious affiliations, and different personalities. If our names displayed who we are, wouldn’t our identities all be the same? Instead of staring at names and trying to understand their meaning, one should focus on a person’s personality, for personality depicts our identity. In fact, I have learned from experience to not infer one’s identity based on their name. For instance, in middle school, I was mutual friends with a girl named Kassidy. One Tuesday afternoon, my friend, Katy told me that Kassidy was going to sit with us at lunch that day. I shrugged my shoulders and replied with a casual “okay”. Before Kassidy walked in, I had a whole image of her in my mind: blonde hair, cute pastel colored clothes, and religious, all stereotypes that I thought a person with an innocent name like Kassidy

“Grab your stuff and get out,” he yelled, pointing at the door. His face was growing redder and redder by the second. His cheeks flushed. I’d had seen him mad before, but nothing like this. I couldn’t lie my way out of this one. “Did you hear me?” He picked up the large garbage bag full of my stuff and tossed it at the front door. I stood there for a moment. When he opened the front door I knew he was serious. I walked outside, looking behind me as the door slammed shut.