Personal Narrative: Why I Receive My Name

In the 90’s life consisted of watching tv shows like Saved By the Bell, Full House, Seinfeld, and Boy Meets World. All of which still play on tv today. Everyone was listening to Backstreet Boys, Alice in Chains, and who wouldn’t listen to Nirvana. The shoe style was weird and the clothes were different. Then in the late, late 90’s (so like ‘99) I was born. But there was something very different about how I was born as well as how I got my name.

It was an ordinary Friday afternoon, I was playing outside with Peyton Becker when a bright orange chichiwawa walked up the driveway. He cautiously came toward us and stopped. We tried to pet him, but he was too frightened, I knew because he had tucked his tail between his legs. Next we tried treats but I guess he had a treatphobia or something cause he still wouldn't budge to let us pet him. By then we gave up and Peyton went home. The next day Lauren and I sprung out of bed to see if he was still there. Once we made it to the back door he was still there infact right at the back door begging with his big brown eyes to come in. We needed a plan to keep him. We begged all afternoon, until we’d forgotten about him being outside, we rushed out the back door to find him laying in the grass, we sat down next to him and pet him until we realized we were petting him!

Early experiences are important because they can change a person’s future. Depending on the child’s family and the people around him/her, their teachings, language, and behavior around the child are very important. My identity was established as a child when my parents gave birth to me and raised me, taught me, and became a role model for me. They helped me create my beliefs, and shape my identity to become a good person in society. My parents taught me what is right and wrong, and helped show me the right path to take in life. For example, they taught me how to tie my shoes, how to clean up after myself, some home remedies for illnesses and injuries, etc… During my childhood when I was young, my parents read to me stories every night, sang, talked to me about Buddhism, and taught me morals and all the good things I should do. My mom kept talking to me in Vietnamese and English so when I was 2 years old, I could talk in Vietnamese and understand English pretty well. My parents had not talked to me about Buddha and spoke to me in Vietnamese and English, I might have not been the bilingual teenager that I am today.

My name means wise and ancient in its native tongue. When it crosses borders, it shape-shifts, ever muddled in change, a byproduct of the incompetence of a nation. Things change when you start at the back of the mouth and move to the front, taking detours around the sides, as the straightforward path is blocked by construction, ending in an abrupt one way sign as the tongue hits the teeth. The preconceived notion that someone will get it wrong, or stare at the paper as if it were some small child's writing scrawled across and poorly spelled, yet it was still trying to be read aloud. The were a three times where someone has gotten my name right, first try, those anomalies, a surprises, miracles in their own point. My name Cian, will forever

I used to really hate my name. I hated that it had to start with an "O;" I always thought it made the oddest sound in the alphabet. All the kids in elementary school would call me Olive and laugh. Even my second grade teacher would always comment "your initials make a funny sound when you put them together. It sounds like I'm meditating." I've learned to love my name over time. As I got older, people started calling me by my full name. There's still some people who think it's funny to write "Olive" instead of Olivia on birthday cards, but at the same time I'm not very close with any of them.

I hope all is well. It has been two weeks since your email, so I thought I follow-up with you, give you some info for my siblings and update you about my new certification.

Why I have become who I am today? This is a very simple question with a very complex answer. I am a result of biological, psychological and social-cultural influences. All three of these thing have shaped me into the person that I am today. My social location has also helped to shape me into the person I am today.

In this essay, I will be talking about some of my characteristics and answering the question of who am I?

What makes up an identity? Your friends, family, and culture can all play parts into your identity, but how can you show your identity to someone who isn’t you? By presenting the different sides of you, of course. My project illustrates the amused, serious, playful, and loving parts of me in different areas and situations. I had pictures of me with my friends, family, and some of. It displays my identity in multiple different fashions and therefore deserves an A.

What makes up an identity? A whole lot of things. Your friends, family, and culture can all play parts into your identity, but how can you show your identity to someone who isn’t you? By presenting the different sides of you of course. My project illustrates the fun, serious, playful, and loving parts of me in different areas and situations. It displays my identity in many different fashions and therefore deserves an A.

I thought learning to spell your name was a milestone achieved only in early childhood. However, I stared at the blank line in the top left corner of my eighth grade history test with a furrowed brow. I probably should have been embarrassed to ask for help spelling my name at 14 years old but I swallowed my pride and approached the teacher’s desk anyways. This was my new reality.

As a young girl in elementary school I would get the question “what are you?” As a junior in high school, whether in school or in the grocery store, I am still frequently asked that same question. I used to feel embarrassed of my identity when they asked what I was. My usual response was to slightly laugh and tell them I was “mixed.”

Being able to find identity for myself seemed like a walk of solitude through my silence and confusion. Growing up biracial I observed others as they look me up and down to figure out what I am because to them, I am something different, something almost oriental, something to put a label on because they cannot perceive the in between. With polite smiles people would ask the “what are you?” question. By never being able to escape others apprehension, I strayed away, I drew the lines for myself.

What's in your name? Not a question I have encountered before nor one I have given that much thought to. Normally if someone were to ask you this question your automatic response would be something along the lines of “I was named after my Grandfather” or “it was the name of my mom’s favorite musician”. I guess your name, being something that's said and written over millions of times, tends to become second nature and we forget the other important values it has until someone stops you to ask you, “What’s in your name”.

One of the things that always bothered me about the idea of immortality is, as you can guess by the title, persistence of self. Identity. Whether I'd still be ME, in any way that matters, after a large period of time.