My Name

Erin means Ireland. I wish it meant something more interesting – like hope or joy – but it’s just Ireland. There’s nothing that comes into my head when I think of the name Erin. And when I think of Ireland, all I see in my head are green leprechauns leaping all around with a huge pot of gold. Which is not that great of an image to think about.

I got the name from another little girl. I guess it’s kind of like borrowing or maybe even stealing. My mom watched as my brother befriended an adorable little girl with long straight blond hair and big round blue eyes and so she named me Erin after the girl despite the fact that she knew I would not turn out to be blonde-haired nor blue-eyed. I would be Asian, and therefore inherit black hair and brown eyes like most other Chinese babies. But it’s interesting to think that my mom wanted me to turn out as cute as the other Erin.

Sometimes, I wish I could see the girl my mom named me after. But after I was born, she moved away. And we don’t know where she and her family went. We never saw them again.

It doesn’t really matter anymore anyway. I don’t like my name, but I can’t bring myself to change it for some unknown reason… ah. Never mind. I see. No other name would fit me any better than this one.

Author's Note: Whoa, this story is REALLY short! It surprises even me. But what did I expect?! - after all, I did title this "Three Short Stories." This is supposed to be based off of Sandra Cisnero's style (or to you readers who do not remember authors, the woman who made House on Mango Street).