“The role of culture is that it's the form through which we as a society reflect on who we are, where we've been, where we hope to be.” - Wendell Pierce
In reflecting on this week’s prompt, this part of a poem I wrote a few years ago came to mind (You can read the full version here).
For the first year of my life, I didn't have a name: I was Jane Doe. A year later, I was adopted, chosen, given this name: Melinda Marie Larson.
Melinda: gentle, sweet
Marie: the French variant of Mary "Star of the Sea," A name for a girl who grew up on the water, for a woman still most content upon it. I was named for my maternal grandmother. I was named for the Blessed Mother.
Larson: A noble surname, ethnic and geographic, “Son of Lars,” Scandinavian for Lawrence — a laurel, fragrant, ever green, a wreath to adorn the heads of heroes...I am child of noble victors, of Door County Scandinavians.
My name is the gift of my culture.