Vignette —  My Name

Vignette —  My Name

by Ivy Yu, 12

A March 2024 Monthly Essay Challenge Winner 

I despise the way people pronounce it, their lips moving around the letters as if it were expired jelly. Ivy is what they mean, ai-vee is what I hear. They warble like an pelican trying to catch a fish that swims too fast, the letters escaping from their mouths. The syllables crawling up their throats like a vine, wrapping their tongues in twisting motions. A scream, a cry for help, followed by the long drone of a bumblebee. Aiii-vee. I want to spit it out and stomp on it. I want to tear out the vines that crawl in my throat that twist and turn and run around my insides in circles. Maybe be an alison. An emma or emily or maddie or josie.

I was born during the Chinese year of the rabbit, not the year of the weird name. I don't want to be a pelican, burping out my name like a fish carcass from a gigantic, awkward beak. It should be something light, something bouncy, like a jumping spider. Something quiet yet beautiful, singing a song with just a few syllables, bounding from one mouth to another. Alas.