(left: my namesake flower/ right: pretty pastel hydrangeas)
Walking through the midst of a sea of buckets crammed with pastel
petals, out of the corner of my eye I see a bucket with just a single bunch of
flowers left . The bucket is extremely dirty, the water level is low, and the yellowing
sign that names the flower has been stained with water damage. But the single
bunch of flowers inside is unashamedly, shockingly bright violet. I bend
down, intrigued by this survivor of abandonment, and flip around the sign that
has drooped down.
Although my name is spelled Emilie, and the flower’s name is Emile, I immediately develop a strange emotional attachment to this bundle of violet petals. Although scientifically, I know the flower’s will to live has nothing to do with its actual survival, (because flowers are inanimate objects and don’t have wills), in my fanatical mind, I imagine the flower resolutely being bright violet, surviving despite all odds. You can blame Daisy in the Great Gatsby, because ever since I read the book junior year, I've imagined anyone named after a flower to be very fragile and demure- something pretty to be looked at. Unfortunately, this dreamy misconception of mine is only reinforced by the fact that I do not know anyone named after a flower to prove me wrong. In any case, it makes me happy that my namesake flower is fearlessly violet, unique, and a survivor. If you Google image “Emile Flower,” fewer than three rows of images of my flower pop up, just as when substitutes pronounce my name, they usually stop, blink a few times, and completely butcher it.
Looking back, I realize that I have just spent three paragraphs rambling on about how
I relate to a flower that does not even fully replicate my name, but something
about that flower triggered a spark in me that has empowered me. Today, I
finally finished formatting and coding this blog after two weeks of non-stop
work, and have even started studying for my finals. Thank you, little flower, for
giving me this spur of motivation.
-emilie
