My name is a conundrum. It fits me perfectly—but not at all. 

I can relate to it in so many ways—but feel like a stranger to it in just as many.

It’s short and to the point, almost like it doesn’t want to be seen or heard. It’s a modest 2 syllables with 2 and 3 letters. De - Vin.Two short sounds.

Emotionally, I am the same. I have never been one to make a scene in public or be the deciding voice in an argument. I am more like the person at a restaurant that will eat a meal they didn’t order rather than send it back. Just trying their best to be uncontroversial.

Yet physically, I have been bigger than everyone around me my entire life. I easily stand out with my towering height and curly hair. As much as I may want to be unseen and unheard like my name suggests, I often find it impossible to be missed. 

The name has a strong Irish history. It has been used for centuries as both a forename and a surname and even means ‘poet’ in the old Irish language of Gaelic. A language that has been present in Ireland since the 13th century. A language that is reminiscent of times when Kings ruled over everything and knights fought for those kings.

When looking at me, I am very clearly Irish. I have pale skin that gets easily burnt. I lather myself in aloe, searching for any degree of relief. I am covered in freckles from head to toe. My face, my arms, my hands, my legs, my feet. There is a red tint to my hair.

But the description of the poet might not fit as well. I have always loved math. Arranging numbers to find an outcome has always been satisfying. Science has always been enjoyable. Whether it’s looking at cells under a microscope or combining chemicals to form a new compound. But interest in writing has always eluded me.

My name is a conundrum. We are seemingly bound to be in a constant balance of agreement and disagreement. 

It fits me perfectly—but not at all.

Devin.