The power children’s literature possesses is something I overlooked until I became a college student.

One of my roommates, Jordan, is an education major. Aware of my love for reading, she always shares the books she uses for her class projects and lesson plans with me.

In her most recent lesson plan, she used the book Chrysanthemum. This story is about a young mouse named Chrysanthemum. In the beginning of the story, she loves her name: it is long, it is the title of a beautiful flower and most importantly it is unique. However, her friends tease her about it and Chrysanthemum begins to forget why she loves her name.

When I was a child, this was one of my favorite books. Chrysanthemum’s story did, and still does, resonate with me. Growing up in an Irish-Catholic neighborhood on the Southside of Chicago, I stood out amongst the Mollys, Maeves and all the other common Celtic names that every girl in my neighborhood had. I was the only Carole with an “e” and I was the only Carole not born in the 1940s.

Throughout my life, I have experienced too many variations of the way my name is spelled and pronounced. You would think my last name would be enough to trip people up, but do not underestimate my six-letter first name.

I have been called “Carl” while being teased and I have been called “Carloe” for some reason unknown that I can only assume is either more teasing or pure illiteracy. I have been mistaken as “Caroline” or “Carolynn,” to which I respectfully decline to answer to either.

When it came to introductions, mine was usually followed by someone responding, “Hey, that’s grandma’s/great aunt’s/neighbor who recently died’s name!”

This used to make me feel the same shame that Chrysanthemum felt. My name didn’t feel special and unique. It just felt like it made me stick out, and not in a good way. By the end of her story, Chrysanthemum learns to love her name again. As for me, my love for my name has also grown as my story continues. I am named after one of my grandmothers, which is an honor I feel privileged to have. The receptionists at my eye doctor and dentist always compliment the uniqueness and spelling of my name, which never fails to put a little pep in my step for the rest of the day. And on the occasion whenever I run into someone (which, as of now, has normally been women between the ages of 60 and 80 who almost always say, “Wow! I have never met a young Carole before!”) with the same name as me, we go from strangers to comrades instantly. Our names are our personal brands. No matter how common or uncommon your name is and no matter how you spell it or pronounce it, it is yours and yours only. You get to decide what it means and how it defines you.

For me right now, my name defines me as an outspoken college student just trying to get her life together. One day, when I finally grow into it, it will define me as the kickass grandma I dream of being.

Until then, every day is devoted to really owning my name and making it something I love to hear, say and write. Our names and how we choose to let them define us are just another thing that makes us different from one another. Where is all the fun in being the same?

Carole Hodorowicz is a senior journalism major. She can be reached at 581-2812 or [email protected].