Nancy. N-A-N-C-Y. My name.

It’s not creative or interesting. It’s old. It’s my great grandma’s name and my grandma’s name and now. Now, it’s supposedly mine. But can a name really truly be yours?

When I’m at family gatherings and any of my relatives say the name Nancy, I’m not the only one to whip my head around ready for a much needed conversation with someone over the age of twelve. In fact, most of the time when the name Nancy is mentioned at these chaotic get togethers, it’s directed toward my grandma and how her heavenly cooking just brings this dysfunctional mess of a family together for a one night. Or sometimes it’s directed toward my great grandma and how we all miss her ability to make the most bland event a story full of adventure and excitement and how she used to call anyone out that did anything stupid in her house and how we all miss her presence. But sometimes, just sometimes, it is directed towards me, the youngest, the newest copy, the nuisance of the Nancy’s. The Nancy who won’t live up to the expectations of being a “Nancy.” My aunts and uncles sit there pestere me on my grades and judge me knowing that I won’t live up to these expectations that their mom has set for me.

Then, they feel the need to talk to me like my nine or ten year old cousins because I’m not a good enough of a Nancy for them to have an intelligent conversation with. I then try to join the “adult” conversations like the nuisance of a Nancy I am. My opinion is as well he

ard as a pin dropping during a concert because after all I am too young to know anything about the political matters or social problems occurring even if they may affect me. When I am talking to non-family members. I usually have to introduce myself using my ancient name and most of the time they have never heard of a Nancy. Unless in some rare cases, like me they also have a grandmother or great grandmother named Nancy. Then, the conversation gets uncomfortable, and they start talking about how wonderful of a lady their grandma Nancy was and how she used to make the best of cookies, and how she used to knit so well, and how she held the family together when she was alive, and how they miss her so much. They speak to me like they are expecting me, the copy of the copy, to live up to the expectations of their dead grandmother.