In Spanish and Italian my name means, of the sea. In Hebrew it means, bitter, or rebellion. Like a cup of dark roast coffee or a piece of dark chocolate. Good in moderation, but it’s too rich. I tend to tire of it pretty quick. My mother however, loves both of those things.

My name has no significance to my family. My father says he picked it, my mother disagrees. He said he found it reading a book. She was strong, independent, and mysterious. I would like to think that he picked my name while watching waves crash against a sandy beach. It’s fitting, but not true.

It sounds like gondoliers in Venice, deep and raspy. Beautifully rolling off the tongue. Or a thunderclap during a storm. A sound that shakes down to the core. A deep dark blue color. Curious and oddly decadent. A name that is whispered in the wind as you walk down a old winding road at three in the morning. An overpriced wine from Naples. An instrumental that builds, and builds and builds, once reaching the top breaking into the bass. Like a mightily flowing river. The Rio Grande perhaps.

You can either whisper it, or yell it at the top of your lungs. Marisa. It has a certain ring to it. My brothers get normal names, Jake, or Nate. Those to me are too simple, uncreative and lackluster. My name is an open book, like myself. There is nowhere to hide, no syllable left unsaid. It fits me perfectly.