According to the indisputable truth giver called Google, the name ‘Sydney’ is of Old English origin, meaning ‘wide island.’ I don’t particularly have an affinity for or against land floating aimlessly in bodies of water, but a wide island? I would have preferred chubby peninsula. At least, there’s no pretense. Lucky for me, most people don’t know much about Old English, or care much about the meaning of names in general.
Still, I’ve gotten several compliments because of my name. Non-English speakers have often praised my feeble attempts of communication with enthusiastic shouts of “Scream! Scream Sidney!”
Oh Sidney Prescott, how you delight people everywhere.
So, aside from the birthday cards spelt with an ‘i’ instead of a ‘y,’ the mail sent to Mr. Sydney Adams, the need to ally my title with Australia so that potential friends don’t call me Cindy, and my irrational fear of being chased by a killer, being Sydney is not a bad fate.
In fact, I rather like it.
For those of us who look at the urban dictionary, being Sydney is the equivalent of having it made.
Here are some definitions:
She is hella ugly, especially when her hair’s out. it’s very bushy and when she turns around it goes in your mouth if you stand too close. will end up becoming a prostitute and will have a baby before she reaches University(if she can get in that is)
So, what does it mean to be Sydney? Specifically, Sydney Adams?
Well, based on everything I’ve learned over an extensive research period of 1 hour, I suppose it means that “Sydney” cannot be defined by anyone but me.
Self-discovery appears to be up there with Enlightenment and summoning your Inner Eye. Understanding who you are seems destined, accompanied by some kind of spirit animal guide, a billowing poncho and a walking stick.Or perhaps it used to be.
Mine occurs when I stand off of 35th and 10th in Manhattan and stare at the people pass by. It’s happening now as I sit on my Twin XL bed, across from my college roommate Sarah Park, as we bend in prayer-like thanks to our laptops. Sometimes it happens when I stare at my parents while they talk, the glow of the television flickering on their faces. (Until the unnerving stare makes the hairs on the back of their necks raise.)
Looks up. “What?”
Oh, and definitely when my sister and I have dance parties.
Sydney is a writer. Sydney’s a black girl. Those things don’t change. I know I’m learning, changing everyday. There’s always a second chance, a metamorphosis, an oncoming mid-life crisis. It’s a good feeling. It means it doesn’t matter what I’m defined as.
My name might mean something else tomorrow.