In Hebrew, Annie means gracious one. Gracious. Courteous. Kind. Pleasant. The name Anne is a very classy, old-fashioned name. Old-fashioned like the long dresses, and aprons the women would wear in the 1900s. It feels old and it feels outdated.

The name Annie feels childish. Like no one would take me seriously. Annie. That’s why I was always told by everyone that I have to go by Anne when I got older. No one would want a lawyer, detective, or doctor named Annie.  It made me dislike my name even more. Knowing there’s a chance I would still be looked at like I am a child.  

I was named after my grandmother. Sadly, I was never given the chance to meet her. But my dad talked about her all of the time. Through all the talk my dad has portrayed onto me,  I feel like I now have a legacy to live up to. She was always more tough. She was more brave. Always told I should be more like her. Be more like the assertive, strong woman she was. When I hear Anne, I think of her. I think of the woman my father wants me to be. 

But I don’t mind it. Knowing I was named after someone my dad loved so dearly. It makes me happy to see him happy. He says my name in a sweet like candy but sour and tart like fresh picked cherries way. The sweetness of the candy caresses his words with love and character. The tartness of the cherries fills his words with a pounding and regret.

It reminds me of spring. Open fields, filled with bright colored flowers. The breeze swaying the flowers back and forth. The feeling of the air brushing against your cheeks after it had just rained. Annie feels very welcoming and comforting. Like watching a movie with a big bowl of hot soup when you’re sick. It feels like a big blanket covering you on Christmas day. 

Anne brings me back to 60s movies and tv shows when people would play the saxophone and piano at restaurants. People blowing out the strong stench of cigarette smoke and ashing their cigarettes in the trays next to them. Watching those movies with my dad when I was younger. Knowing it is what my grandma used to enjoy watching. 

I cringe when people say my name—but I also feel a sense of comfort. It’s the way Annie trips off the tongue. It doesn’t come out smoothly. It stumbles about. Almost trips but recovers it’s balance. The sound that the ie make when someone yells my name from across the room. It sounds congested. Like there’s more to the name. But there isn’t. It just stops. A-n-n-i-e. It makes me feel…off. A feeling that is difficult to explain. 

The taste of a tart, not ripe enough, cherry. The face you make when you feel the juice of the cherry hit the back of your throat. Splash on your tongue. Grasp onto your teeth. It’s that sour feeling. The sour face you make. Then, it turns sweet. Sweet like candy. Like candy corn or skittles. That almost overpowering feeling of sweetness. But just the right amount. That’s how I see my name. Sour at first, then sweet.