In French, my name means “from the court” and “short nose.” In English, it’s about the same. Court attendant. Those are the definitions of my name. But—it is not the true definition. 

To me, it’s something different. It’s mellow. It’s calm. It’s like a baby pink or pastel yellow. It’s like Easter. It’s like spring or an open field of flowers. It’s the number four. It’s a relaxing day on a beach during spring break. 

My mother always liked my name. She had it picked out since she was a little girl. To her, the name is beautiful. Classy. Calming. To her, it gives her a mellow feeling, like when she reads Nicholas Spark books on the screened in porch.

My mother. My best friend. Someone that does anything to make people happy. Someone driven to make sure her kids have everything they need. Someone I go to for acceptance. If she likes it, you know it’s exceptional. 

My name. Courtney. She correlates it with wonderful traits. Smart. Caring. Sophisticated. The traits she gives my name are the ones I inherited from her. And the ones I hope to never lose. 

Many people correlate my name with being stuck up. Or snotty. Perhaps even bratty. Completely different from the image my mother has. People may not like the name. But there are people who think it is beautiful. 

It is beautiful. The ratio of vowels to consonants is perfect. The way it sounds. It sails off the tongue smoothly. The letters look neat. It is pretty in cursive.  

Sometimes I get called Court. It is not as beautiful. It is not me. Court is choppy. It isn’t mature. It doesn’t sound like a name. Most importantly, it isn’t the raw name my mother gave me. Court is correlated with sports. It’s correlated with law. I am not correlated with sports. Nor law. 

When I was younger, I wanted to be named Chloe. I thought it was gorgeous.  But now, I would not change my name. Courtney is mature. It is smooth. It is elegant. It is sophisticated. It is me. It is what my mother named me.