<p>I really don't care who reads this, as the subject matter sort of discounts any plagarism, but I would love some quick feedback as I'm sending this out tomorrow to UConn, Northeastern, Umass Amherst, and then UNC when I finish the supplement. If you guys think it needs serious work maybe I'll wait longer. Anyways, here it is,</p>
<p>Sawyer</p>
<pre><code>No, my first name is not Tom. Thanks for asking. This is the world of small-talk in which I have lived for as long as I can remember. These responses, and many other like them, have become automatic reactions, generated solely to ward off the numerous jokesters who hear my name and immediately make it the butt of jokes. Sometimes I am forced to play along in order to appease their attempts at bonding. Huckleberry Finn? He is my best friend. The Sawyer School? It is one of my top college choices behind Colby-Sawyer College, of course. I get it. I have an abnormal first name. Hah.
When I was younger, my name was the defining factor which made me unique. To me, it meant that I was different from the hordes of Michaels, Christophers and Matthews out there. Despite the jokes, it meant that I was unique and special. In reality, it meant woodcutter. The name of mystery and euphony that I had grown to love simply meant nothing more than lumberjack. However dismayed I was at first, this discovery turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I finally had a chance to identify myself with my lost Canadian heritage. Having been born and raised in a middle-class suburb in Connecticut, it was easy to forget that my father was raised with 11 siblings, struggling to get by with a single mother in rural Canada. The discovery of my name’s meaning finally gave me something to connect to that unrecognized part of my heritage.
Now, the substitutes continue to peer at me from above their spectacles, trying to find a face to match the blight on their attendance sheet which so closely matches a top 20 list for male baby names of the year 1994. “Nickname?” they all inquire. I shake my head no every time, and I proudly state that my strange name means lumberjack, someone who works hard for what they have, just like my father did when he can from Canada to Connecticut by himself when he was even younger than I am now. It was extremely difficult to recognize my heritage when there was no part of my life to remind me of it. Since my discovery, I take great joy in thinking about my dad’s journey and hard work whenever my name is uttered.
So, I let the people laugh, with their names that mean “gift of god” or “hope”, or “warrior”. My unique and humble occupational name allows me to connect with the heritage that brought me to where I am today. I will not let my name down. I will opt instead to rise up to the plateau that my name sets for me. When you meet me, call me proud, call me strange, or call me any funny and creative play on my name that you want. I will never be anything but Sawyer.
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