I've always loved names. I love how man puts so much value in naming a child, hoping that perhaps a baby will grow into a name, and through it be given a trait. It reminds me of when a baby is born and the parents pray to the Gods for a strong boy or a beautiful girl. Names invoke such power, such reverence it seems silly that man believes himself able to name others. I've always thought that it would have made much more sense for a child to name him or herself, or to ask the Gods to name the child instead. Man is presumptuous, assuming the responsibility of giving value or classification to another creature.
That being said, my name sucks. I mean, it's so terribly ironic that I can't even laugh about it, only sigh in mirthful disbelief. Seriously, my parents must have been sorely disappointed. They named my after the soul, the mind, the brain. They named me in hope of an intelligent, wonderful daughter. Instead they got me.
I really don't live up to my name. I've always just, well, gone through the motions. I've always just sat in the background, not caring enough for anything to be passionate, or happy. I'm not clever, either. I mean, I might be, but how could I find out? A girl, in Greece, learning? One might as well be a hedonist and go run naked with the Spartans. So, the brain part of my name was kind of a disappointment.
My parents have awful naming skills. My sisters are totally unimaginatively named. I think my parents saw me, and my failure of a name, and gave up. Aster, Clea, and Melanthe all mean flower. But hey, they don't live up to their name either. Unless they're the flowers that shrivel and die when they don't get enough attention. Then they're perfect.
I love the idea behind my name, don't get me wrong. But, it's a lot to live up to. And since I don't live up to it, am I upsetting the Gods? Am I unworthy? Or have my parents angered the Gods, who decided I was a good form of payback? Because let me assure you, I have given my parents hell.
All my life, I've been told I was pretty. When I was little, it was from old women and my parents, excited to find me a future husband. When I was around 12, it came from the creepy looks from the boys in the allies. Now, as I approach my 18th birthday, it comes in the form of jealousy from my sisters, awkward silence in the streets, and confusion from my parents as to why no one will marry me. How am I supposed to find myself pretty when all men run away from me? Why should I be pleased with my face, when my sisters go behind my back to try and set my hair on fire? I wish I lived up to my name, mind, instead of the opposite, body. I find no pleasure in gazing vainly in a pool of water, or listen to sleazy old men shout my name in the streets. I derive no happiness from loneliness, and I experience no joy from the constant stream of awful, vile suitors who just want to lie with me. My exterior is a curse, yet how can I redeem myself to the Gods? What did I do to deserve this life? And because of my looks, I am paying with my life.
On the dawn of my 17th birthday, I awoke to the usual news of suitors arriving. I dressed in my cheapest frock, put up my hair in a severe not, didn't brush my teeth, and tried to look as ugly as I could. I was tired of this. For once, I wanted to dress up, leave my hair down, rub flower oil on my wrists, and have fun being pretty. But no such luck. I went downstairs, to the usual mass of slimy men and old beaus past their prime. I went through a dry, boring throng of introductions and flowery speeches of money and good land to my parents. No one was interesting, and all back farther and farther away throughout the day, so intimidated that by evening half had withdrawn their offer of marriage. It made me feel ugly.
I walked in the gardens with one, a boy no older than myself, handsome and polite. He didn't lead me by my hand, and didn't ask questions. He talked of himself and his property, and of my beauty. We edged past my sisters, glaring daggers at me. We strolled past my parents, talking with each other in hopeful tones. We ambled beyond the garden, to the forest on the side. He was kind, and could actually glance at me from time to time. Sad, really, how he was my best prospect in a long time.
As always though, the Gods found it wrong for me to find happiness. The boy was….he was brave. He was self-righteous. He was self-serving, in the worst way. I remember running back through the gardens, holding my torn frock, feeling the pain where my hair had been ripped out. I remember the tears running down my face, I remember my parent's disappointed expressions, and my sisters' uncaring gazes. I remember my father's face. It was almost, in a way, angry at me, instead of the boy. Like it was my fault, like I should be blamed. I remember running to my room, crying, while the boy rode off on a cart with a sickening smile on his face.
I hated my name. I hated my face, I hated myself. Why would the Gods hate me so much, to force such misery on me? I was unwise, though. I had forgotten that the Gods do not forgive, or forget. They always hear the cries of anger, always hear the mocking tones of an insolent girl. They never understand sarcasm, or sympathy. They are vain creatures, especially those steeped in worship. Especially Aphrodite.
Which leads me to now. Now, standing on a mountain. Climbing, my face frozen, because of an oracle. He married me to a monster. He told me I was not meant for man. That, I sort of figured out. I was resigned to my fate, to maybe be eaten by a predator, or raped by some minotaur, or to die in the cold, belonging to the North Wind. And so, here I am, with dark fast approaching. I feel my fingers, numb, and my face, cracked, and my feet, calloused. I'm sure I don't look pretty now.
Then it comes. This sweeping motion, this wind, lifting me off the ground. I feel strange, as if asleep. I don't fight, don't struggle. The wind carries my up and up, soaring. I come to the top of this strange place, in this strange trance. I feel weightless, with nothing holding me up. Deafness holds me tight for what seems like an eternity, with no senses but that of the wind, roaring in my ears. Then I feel something hard, beneath me. I feel bruises forming on my back in the shape of handprints, and I sense warmth in the form of a strong body holding me close. I open my eyes once more, and focus them in the dark. I do not feel scared, I do not feel sad. I cannot see, but I can feel. And I feel safe. And warm. And perhaps, possibly, sometime in the future maybe, I think I will finally feel happiness. At such a thought, something inside me wakes. And for the first time in my life, I feel my name… my soul…. my psyche, come alive.