I’ve always loved my name, my parents chose it because it meant small village, or a wreath. It is usually used in Greek culture. I always thought of a small, welcoming village, covered in snow, with brown wood houses and smoke coming out of the fireplaces. A calm place. A place where I could be me. And that place goes everywhere with me. I like to think I’m fairly unique, in how I act, and how I spend my time, I don’t think it is too common. And while I do not mind if you pronounce my name wrong, I want to be clear. I am not Kiera, I’m not Kira, and I’m certainly not Korea. (Despite what some substitute teachers may think). My name is Kiria.
My middle name is Vie Lin. Yes, you heard right. Vie Lin. It is a name passed down by the woman of my family. My grandmother moved to America from China to escape communism when she was about 13. Her name was Vie Von. She later grew to be a star with Warner Maker Studios in different plays, and she was a model. My aunt, her daughter, is named Vie Vette. She is a designer and owns her own company, Bentley Designs. She does interior design and she also enjoys paintings in her free time. She also works part time as a face painter. My middle name is Vie Lin, and I want to be an artist too, I want to design worlds and people and clothing, and I will bring my names with me. All of them.
Hugs, soft and warm. Watching movies with rain, splashing on the window, trying to get in. Cooking with three people in the kitchen, a mess of spills, fumbles, and successes. Doing things together, shopping, eating, relaxing. It was always the three of us. There’s no single aspect to focus on, the feeling of being all together is what makes us special. They are happy, safe, and my home.
Warm wind and the spray of the river. The two sensations doing a tango right in front of my eyes. Seeing the small island around the corner I grip the railing of the boat. Locking eyes with my parents I know my ebullience is practically palpable. The land of dreams. That’s where I was. And it was, it was a beautiful dream and a perfect day. The boat docks and I speed off the boat to the playground that seemed so full of magic, life, and youth. Swinging back and forth, jumping off and sticking the landing. Sliding down and racing back up. Running all around until I approach a plastic log that seemed like a great place to hide. I rush to it and find I am before a large child who had apparently claimed this log to be his own. He says something unintelligible to me. Not knowing what the boy uttered, I furrow my eyebrows and ask him to repeat himself. The kid responds with a wail and then the tears flow from his face faster and in more abundance than the actual water park. I ran away. There was no other option in my five-year-old mind. I ran to my parents and rushed them back to the boat. I never looked back.