Growing up I had always been jealous of my brother's name. Alex. Defender. The warrior himself. It sounded so much cooler than it actually was. I always strived to be as cool as him. He had fit the name so well. A perfect match. This is what led to the uncertainty with my name. 

I felt like my name was mundane and strange. But—strange isn’t always a bad thing. Strange is one of my defining characteristics.

Sporadic. Like the burst of sunshine in the morning.  Like a system of pipes through an old creaky manor. I am a chain of neurons firing, quick and electric. Complex. Exactly how I envisioned myself. 

I remember the first time I figured out that you can change your name. I remember constantly bothering my mom about it . It seemed like a priority to eight-year-old me. Clancey. At the time it seemed like a burden. Like a rock sinking to the bottom of murky water.  But I had never viewed my name as the “son of the warrior.”

Son of the warrior. In no way was my father a warrior. A coward maybe, but never a warrior. My mother overcame her struggles so that I could have a good life. That’s the warrior that my name represents.

I’ve always been a very energetic and scattered person. Sporadic like the weekend plans that pop up last second, which are always the best.  Like the septic knee that nearly killed me when I was two. Like the rain that was never supposed to come. I am complex, but not confusing. I am a burst of sunshine, but also a mellow, cloudy day. Sporadic, but in a good way. I am like a Sunday evening, boring and quiet.

Clancey. Clancy. The difference may seem small, but the “e” is what makes me unique. And that was one thing that I always liked about my name. However, I know that it doesn’t matter how people spell my name. I will always be Clancey. 

Eight years ago my name meant nothing to me. However, now that I have taken the time to consider who I am and what I represent, I have been able to give my name its own meaning.