A Meaning of a Name

Entry #21.2 / 9th July 2022

Going to the Treasures Exhibit was another good decision that day. While there were a lot of histories in there to wrap my head around, it was still amazing to see and learn about. One of the items there was Congress’ Declaration of Independence—I’m pretty sure it was also one of the original copies.

            I also saw the teddies that inspired Winnie the Pooh’s creation. It was so weird to see the exact models that the stories were inspired by instead of the cartoon versions. It made the whole thing much more… authentic

            And then I came across Charles Dickens’s desk and chair. According to the information stands, this was likely the desk and chair Dickens used to write some chapters of Great Expectations.

            I have never read Charles Dickens’s works, much to my disappointment. Part of me always wanted to, but… I always felt that famous authors like Charles Dickens were way too smart for me. Plus, as I grew older, it was hard to find the time to read what I wanted, let alone anything else.

            It may be time to change that.

            Everything else in the Treasures Exhibit was a bonus. And I couldn’t help feeling an intimate connection as I read about each treasure within this Exhibit. It could’ve been down to the room’s low lighting or how closed everything was, but these items, no matter how insignificant they may seem at first, meant something. They were essential to those who were important to history.

            It made me think of items that were important to ordinary people—to me. We were all important in our ways. We all made history just as much as we are part of it and contributing to it still.

            I wonder if, at the end of our lives, instead of having our lives flash before our eyes, we had some kind of personal museum, holding each item that was important to us and that helped us live our lives in the ways we did.

            What would be in my museum? My two childhood teddies – Teddy and Kaitlyn? The first story I ever wrote – first on that electronic whiteboard and then in that small handmade paper booklet? That hoodie I got when I first came to New York back when I was fifteen that was still stashed somewhere in one of my many memory boxes?

            I wonder what would be in my Dad’s museum, Zara’s, Jonesy’s, Mitchy’s, Evan’s, and any others I loved. I wonder what would be in their exhibits. I wonder what seemingly insignificant items would be shown to highlight who they are and how they became who they are.

            It added so much meaning to the Treasures Exhibit overall that when I finally crept out, I felt like I was in a deep slumber and had finally woken up.

            Feeling a mixture of heaviness and lightness, I continued to explore the library, my head deep in thought as I took everything in.

            Everywhere I turned and walked down was beautiful. Some of it was modernised here and there, mainly with a few security cameras glaring down at me, but overall, from what I could tell, the library kept to its original design. What was the most gorgeous area, though, was the top floor. 

            I gasped as I took in the ceiling art. It briefly reminded me of the painting that my Dad (for whatever reason) has/had. It seemingly depicted some sort of heavenly battle, with the men either topless or naked (why are they always naked?) waving some sort of weapon as they floated about in the air.

            It was beautiful. Something that definitely caught your eye.

            However, once I had fully absorbed the ceiling, with a jaw-dropping experience, a few photos, and a video, I assessed the area overall. There were three directions I could walk through—one was a singular room, another possibly led somewhere else, and another seemed to be an insect exhibit.

            I wandered through the open entryway to the first room to the right – which was Edna Barnes Salomon’s Room. It seemed to be an extensive study area open to the public to walk through, take photos and sit at the many tables. It was interesting to walk through, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many writers, academics, and other important people have worked here. Writing various stories, researching and developing projects, or even writing arguments to support their causes. 

            With those wonderments, I couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated and was grateful to let out a long breath as I exited the room. That was until my eyes landed on the room opposite. 

            Rose Main Reading Room.

            It felt weird. Having my name written on the stone of the NYC Public Library wasn’t my full name, but – you get my point.

            Once upon a time, I felt uncomfortable with my name. At first, growing up, I never felt like I lived up to the image of the world’s most beautiful flower. Whether it was down to insecurity or… well, that, I felt that pressure to hold that same outer beauty.

            It seems stupid, but that’s how a young mind works. As I got older and became a writer, I realised that a name is important to the person as a whole.

            A name doesn’t define who you are. Heck, I changed both my middle and last names. But whenever I created a character, their first name needed to be perfect. To represent their path, to symbolise, in some way, who they are as a person. It didn’t have to be down to the meaning of the name itself, but something that was deeply important in the story and added more weight to the character and the story as a whole.

            And then, back in 2020 (before all the chaos), on my flight to Amsterdam, I read the beginning chapters of Light is the New Black by Rebecca Campbell, who expressed her own spiritual meaning towards her name and how it made sense for the way her life was going and where it was headed.

            It made me see my own name in a new light and comforted me.

            As a rose is a flower, and what are flowers meant to do? Grow

            It would be years later, just before I came to America, that a new meaning was added to my name.

            But even as I had grown accustomed to and even liked my name, seeing it written somewhere important—even if it wasn’t directed towards me—made me feel uncomfortable.

            This is what made the first year of living in York a bit awkward at times. A large part of Tudor history is rooted there—the Yorkshire Rose, the Tudor Rose, and the English Rose

            I got used to it after a while—until someone pointed it out to me, and then I would have to overcome my uncomfortableness with some kind of stupid joke.

            However, I was curious about the opposite room and walked more towards it. I saw a line of sorts outside, with security manning the entrance. From the looks of things, tourists weren’t allowed in. I could see people on the inside, leading me to suspect only certain people were allowed in.

            Tourists were being denied just as they approached, though that didn’t stop them from taking some photos from where they stood before moving on.

            Looking around briefly, I saw a sign that informed people that no photos were to be taken inside and that they must only read, handwrite, or use a computer inside to work.

            My eyebrows rose, and curiosity got the better of me. I got in line as a person was being let inside.

            When it was my turn, the security guard looked up at me expectantly, seemingly preparing to turn me away.

            “Sorry, but I was wondering,” I began, my voice a bit higher in pitch as nerves overtook me. “If I bring a laptop to do some work, am I allowed in there?”

            A tiny smile lifted the security guard’s stony lips. “Yes, of course.”

            I let out a breath, “cool. Thank you!” I left the line, feeling enthusiastic and excited for the next time I came here.

            I mean, how many people can say they did their writing in the NYC Public Library?

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