In English my name means hunter. In Spanish my name means hunter. In pretty much every language my name means hunter. It is bold, like the first geese in a V formation of hundreds. Not too common for boys, but uncommon for a girl. When my name is said it’s like a Remington 12 gauge shotgun. My name is powerful, like the slugs used projecting sounds for miles. It’s like the swaying rocking chair deep in the valley’s of Mississippi.

I’m the first of my name. It wasn’t passed down, nor named after any one. My father picked the name like a daisy. He was born and raised in the south. I was born a girl, but that didn’t stop my parents from giving me such a bright orange name. Independence was brought to me from the day I was born.

My step grandfather gets full credit for my name. The man who taught my dad everything he knows. Fishing, hunting, anything to do with army green. His real dad left.

My father took responsibility of his own. Multiple jobs at the age of 13. Juggling life on his small frail hands. Helping his mom pay the bills. He was independent, which is what my name represents. He wasn’t going to let a faulty father stop him. He rose above, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter. Something that seems so impossible, but with determination can be accomplished.

In elementary school everyone laughed at my name. It’s as if kids didn’t know you can have any name. It’s almost as if it was a crime to have a name like mine. Although it wasn’t the worst name. Cassandra, Sheldon, a bit uglier than mine. My name is strong, like a giant sequoia, nothing can knock it down.

I would never give up my name. This name has made me rather aggressive, shrewd, and critical and has caused me to be extremely independent. There’s no better way to describe me. Hunter.