A Pretty Little Flower

The first thing that comes to most people’s mind when they think about the name Lily is a flower. In fact, if you google it, you get multiple definitions and images of the flower, but not a single “what does my name mean” site or urban dictionary result (maybe that’s an exaggeration but still, it’s definitely not the number one search result). Most people associate the name with the flower as well, thinking I was named after it. Now, I don’t know the full story surrounding my parents deciding to name me Lily, but I can only hope that it was not after a flower. If it was, however, my parents got it very wrong. The flower Lily is delicate and fragrant, and comes in a variety of different colours. It screams proper poise and dainty lady tendencies. If you’ve ever had any conversation with me, you know that I am absolutely nothing like the flower (except for the fact that I smell good, and I’ve been told that many times). I am most definitely not delicate, as seen by my ability to survive with nothing more than a simple bruise after being flipped by Vinnie, and the only colour I come in is a pale, sickly yellow that gives me the ability to blend in with the walls at my dance studio. I have little to no interest in fancy makeup or extravagant jewelry, and my posture is atrocious. All in all, I would say that I have next to no connection with my first name. It fails to define me, and does a poor job of representing me.

Unknown. Lily Oriental Colorado. Longfield Gardens.

Much like the forced connection I have with my name, I have often been lumped in with groups of people, whom others assume I identify (or should identify with). Sometimes this obligatory connection surprises me- I find myself in a group with others who aren’t half bad, or who actually do have similar views as me. More often than not, however, I find myself caught between two mes - the individual, and the building block of a larger group. A prime example of this is my role as an individual in the IB programme. I’m not necessarily against the ideals of the programme (in fact I find it much more logical than AP, and would prefer it), but I don’t necessarily fit into the box of a perfect IB student. Ideally, the IB student would be a well-spoken genius, who plans to major in biochemistry, or something else that sounds equally as complicated. The perfect student would get his or her homework done in a timely and efficient manner, and be not in the least affected by procrastination. I want to major in the arts (and consequently live on the streets of New York). I have mastered the art of procrastination, and do my best work sitting in the class before the one where said work is due. Evidently, I don’t match up much with this stereotype. However, I do often find myself in a devastating inner turmoil due to the expectations that it sets. I don’t like to talk to adults much about my college plans, because every time I recount my aspirations to someone, I feel silly, as though I should in fact be majoring in biochemistry. I feel the ridiculous pressure to conform to the obnoxious label of an ‘IB kid’. While I am an ‘IB kid’, I am also my own individual, with an identity outside of that group (inspirational, I know).