Changing Identities

When I was eleven, I was willing to change my name to
Ysabel if given the chance. I even wanted to be called
anything as plain as Jane or as femme as Penelope just so I
can change my name.

When I was in school, I always cringed at the sound of my
name. Lots of jokes have been made out of it. As if the cruelty
of not being normal during fourth grade had not been
enough. Apart from my classmate's daily chantings, I also
suffered from the (un?)intentional mispronounciation of my
teachers. Like Pi in Yann Martel's novel, I tried (and failed) to
come up with a good moniker out of my flimsy first name. I
came up with all kinds. Well, except that proverbial "h" added
to names, making them qualify as monikers.

All these attempts became futile and soon, I gave up. It
dawned on me that I am "marked" for life and this name I
have been given is my own burden.

This strong dislike for my name ended ( quite abruptly) after finding out what my name meant. In most baby names books, it meant specific and outspoken. I liked those meanings, but my favorite one had been "sea jewel" for it had transformed me into something enchanted.

My name is Eulalia.