The Spoon: A Short Story

My full name is Stanley Evans Fenelon. I believe I was named a mixed of my uncle and my father. My father’s name is Evans Fenelon and my uncle’s middle name is Stanley; but that’s all a theory. I’ve never had a conversation with my parents of how my name came about, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it was made. The uncle I grew up with was my mom’s fourth and final brother out of fourteen children. That’s why I believe she named me after him. It also follows the trend of my younger brother being name after my grandfather, and my little sister being named after my grandmother. I’m one out of three children.

On the 23rd of January in the year 2003, at around 1:00 in the afternoon at Kaiser Permanente San Francisco, I was born into the world. My parents, Frederick Torres Nangca and Rowena Aldana Nangca, and I first settled in my grandparent’s studio as a child. The space was small but open for the most part. From what I remember, the wall that was on the same side as the door had a drawer beneath the television where they kept most of their belongings. Just across from that was a blue couch that they had pushed up against the ten windowed wall. Next to the couch was a smaller beige dresser that held my grandfather’s extra clothes along with a few of my grandmother’s accessories. My grandmother and grandfather often held novenas and parties in honor of God.

In a less black and white representation of myself, my name represents a currently nineteen-year-old female who was born into a loving family. I have a mother, father, older brother, and in a sense adopted older brother. My mother’s name is Alicia, my father’s Richard, my brother’s Derek or D.J., and my ‘brother’s’ Caleb. My parents had guardianship over Caleb for seven years before he became emancipated. He didn’t want to feel like a burden on our family; he never was. I like to write, but I don’t like to read unless something really interests me. I love all of the arts and play all woodwind, string, and percussion instruments. I can’t ride a bike or play chess; I could at one point but have forgotten since getting a concussion when I was little in karate. I just haven’t been interested in learning these skills again. My brother, D.J., has autism. He has affected my life in many ways. It was through him I discovered my major. One day, I hope to be a Speech-Language Pathologist and specialize in working with children. I would like to get married and have children someday as well. My name holds my relationships, my hopes, and my dreams.

My father named me before I was born. Before the thought of me even existed. Ever since he could remember he wanted a son, and he wanted him to bear the name Zachary. He can’t explain why he had that desire,

The author makes a choice of giving questions at the beginning of the article. The questions ask if the readers have thought about other people who have the same name as themselves. And then, the author leads readers to the main thesis of the article – “names have their own extraordinary backstories that are

January 3rd, 1998 in the town of Smithtown in Long Island, New York, a baby girl named Madelyn Delgado was born. This girl was me. I was born with a lot of dark hair, brown skin and light brown eyes that changed colors depending on what I was wearing. I was born to Mayra Duran and Delfin Delgado. When I was born, I was the only child, but when I turned 7 years old, I was given a little brother. His name is Delvyn Delgado. Both my parents are from Jarabacoa, Dominican Republic. In fact, this is where all of my family is from. Being born in America and having Dominican parents, my brother and I get the best of both worlds like the fact that we are fluent in English and Spanish. Before my brother was born, I moved multiple times before ending up in Springfield. I lived in New York then moved to Worcester. We lived there for a couple of years then moved off to Forest Park and from there; somehow, we ended up in Springfield. I didn’t mind moving, mostly because I was so young and didn’t really care, but I still like the idea of starting fresh.

My family is Mexican –American I am third generation born in the United States. My maternal grandparents were born in Texas in the early 1900s, and my mom was born in Arizona. By the late 1950s the Davila Mendoza family relocated to Fresno, California because they wanted to work in the agriculture business. I do not have much knowledge about my father I never met him. All I know is that he was from Guadalajara, Mexico. I am the eldest child followed by a younger sister. I was born in the early 1970s in Fresno, California. My grandmother spoiled me because I was her first grand-daughter my mom was her only daughter followed by five older brothers.

After me and my family spend a day on the beach during our vacation in Florida, we sat down and ate some dinner. It was New Year's Eve, 1999. It was a monumental day in history. A new century was about to start. There was a feeling in the air unlike none other, everyone knew that a new chapter was about to start, however the future for many was uncertain. This was especially true for me, as my wife was pregnant with a baby girl. As we walked into the restaurant, I carried a book. There were numerous names in this book, however I knew when the clock struck midnight, one of those names in that book would be my daughter’s name. As we sat down my wife went over her criteria: a unique name that did not remind her of an ancestor. Thus my wife logically went about listing each name in the book and discussing if it met her criteria. Her nomenclature process was very organized. By the time our dinner came, there was a list narrowed down to ten names. By the time dessert was out, the list was narrowed down to two names, Christine and Caitlyn. As I heard the countdown to a new year, instead of logically planning what name my daughter would have; me and my wife reached into a cup and picked up a crumpled up piece of paper. Very cautiously, I spread out the wrinkled paper, to reveal my future. On the piece of paper was the name Christine and as everyone invigoratingly rang in the new year.

I have taken on many names, many identities in my years. I have been too many people for one man to be in a lifetime. Yet it’s hardly been a lifetime for me. Whenever I took a new name, I made it my new identity, for it was all I had and all I would ever have. I would sit and think out every small detail of my new character; I would become someone else entirely. Yet, ironically, the one name I could never remember was my true name, the one given to me at birth. For I have a true name, one that only I and the few who know me best know of. I know the sound of this name, how it feels when it rolls of the tongue, but its meaning has been lost to me. This one name, Martin Jacobs, is but an echo in my memory of a past life.

Shortly after my third birthday, my mom was determined to teach me how to spell my name. “J-U-L-I-A” my mom would slowly spell, “Julia! Okay now I want you to try to spell it…” Not only did I quickly learn how to spell and write out my name, I began introducing myself to any person that spoke to my parents, including folks like the bald and studly grocery clerk that reacted with a chuckle and respond with, “how cute!” The third year of my life was the year I really comprehended what having a name was, which gave me an identity. Not only was I able to recognize the significance of my specific title, I became motivated to live out the full potential of my name.

It was a surname left behind by my biological father whom I have not contacted in nearly 14 years. Little was known about him, and much less was spoken of him. His face remains unrecognizable, voice unheard, and touch undetectable. He was no different from a stranger and yet a part of him never failed to appear in my life. It was as if he was haunting me.

Can you believe, that I almost had a completely different first name. My mom was going to name me Rebecca. Thankfully for me when she was getting her hair done,by a friend of hers Tara,all of that would change. While Tara was doing my mom’s hair they were talking, and Tara asked what my mom was going to name me. My mom told her that she was going to name me Rebecca. Tara told my mom that she should name me Molli. I am really glad that my mom decided to listen to Tara because I think that the name Rebecca wouldn’t have fit me, and that the name Molli fits me a lot better.

On the eve of my twelfth birthday, my father sat me down and gave me a good talking to- He says, Mary Amelia; his using my full name and not what everyone usually calls me had me paying attention right away.

I was born on a sunny afternoon on August 7,2003, 4:39 p.m. That day my whole family came to visit me at the Reedley Hospital. On my mom 's side it was my Great Grandpa Roman, grandpa Tony, grandma Rita, Great Grandma Jenny and my mom’s 2 brothers and 2 sisters.On my dad’s side there was my grandpa Pio, grandma Luz, great grandma Juana, my dad’s 4 brothers and my 4 brothers and sisters.The first person to carry me was my dad and all off my grandparents.My grandpa Tony was the first one to ask what was my name my mo told him it was Hailey Leann Rios.My mom named me Hailey because no one in the family was named Hailey and Leann after my Aunt Prisella.My aunt was happy to know me and here have the same name.After everyone had