Wendy: It's a Name

You know how it’s fun to look through a book of names and find out what yours means? Well, the first time I did that I found that my name meant...nothing, aside from having been made up for the story “Peter Pan”. Sure, it had a (very) brief history, but it didn’t mean anything. This discovery was a little strange, but there’s nothing I can do except make the most of its results.

My parents chose to name me “Wendy” in memory of my mother’s late-grandfather William. Jews have a tendency to “pass on” a name by choosing a name for the child that starts with the same letter as the deceased relative’s. I guess I’m lucky that they didn’t stick me with Wilhelmina or some other outrageous “W” name – I mean, “Wendy” is an uncommon enough name. Of course, this isn’t a completely bad thing.

Sure, it means that I can be singled out really easily – someone can call out “Wendy” across the quad and it’s clear that they’re calling for me. Unless the middle schools spat up a new Wendy in the latest batch of freshmen, I’m pretty sure I’m the only student “Wendy” in the high school. This was the case all through elementary and middle school – I didn’t really have to put my last name on anything because there’d be no confusion as to whose paper it was, but I did because it was what you were supposed to do. It was nice to think that I had the option of omitting my surname, though. However, this gift also had a potential curse – if I got in trouble, a child could just tell their teacher, “Wendy did it,” and a punishment would find me incredibly quickly. This is only theoretical, seeing as I am not the troublemaking type...but still, we’re all a little paranoid.

Of course, having a somewhat uncommon name sometimes can be a little awkward. Not only can I easily be singled out by name, but I go insane when people hear my name and automatically think of Peter Pan. It doesn’t help that my younger brother is Michael, either. When I was younger my mom took us to the Disney Store as a treat whenever we were in the mall. We’d never overstay our welcome, though – if we were looking at toys and didn’t agree to go with her when she wanted to leave, she threatened to call us by name. I get uncomfortable when I’m summoned in public, but it’s just that much worse when you have to answer to some lady standing in the middle of a store calling out fairy tale characters’ names. We weren’t big on being publicly humiliated, so we tried to run to her before she got to the point of name-calling. Once we got a little older we decided to answer to alternate names to make her look foolish. It never really worked, but we thought we were clever.

I guess the best part about having a name without a hidden meaning (such as “celestial toadstool” or “green flower”) is that I don’t have to conform to it. Instead, I get to make my name grow to fit me. I don’t have to worry about what might happen if I didn’t turn into a somewhat heavenly mushroom woman – I can just be myself and know that I’m still defining the name I was given. In a way I’m almost glad my parents didn’t give me an exceedingly common name like Laura or Sarah – no one can get me confused with “that other Wendy” because there usually isn’t one. When people think of the name Wendy, assuming they’re not a Peter Pan fanatic, they can’t really conjure up a face or personality in their mind, so it becomes my job to give them the perfect image of what a person named Wendy is like – weird, fun, and cool. Oh, and modest, of course. I’m still working on it, but one of these days the sound of my name will cause the essence of my personality to ring in the ears of those who hear it, a clear image of who I am, summarized in just one word: “Wendy”.