I was supposed to be a Katherine, that’s Katherine with a K. I was supposed to be named after my father’s mother, a woman he adored who died far too young. Katherine Kurtz was supposed to be me, but Katherine Kurtz was not my name.

My father says he was worried that my initials would be KK. Too much like the evil KKK for his beloved, long desired child to bear. It was silly but all new parents are a little silly. The other proposed name was Olivia, but my father did not want my initials to be OK. No child of his would merely be OK. His child would be extraordinary, stupendous, brilliant, and wonderful, never merely OK.

Somehow I became Madeleine. Madeleine Joy. I bore no name of a departed loved one. I carried no memories in the syllables of my appellation. I had a name, a pretty name that could be dressed up or down depending on the situation. It was a name that bespoke elegance and refinement among the Madisons and Madilynns that were so popular in 1997. An extra E lingered in the middle like a French queen, refusing to stoop to the common scions. When I would carve my name in cursive on the cardboard covers of my notebooks, I would relish the looping rhythm of the d and l and double e’s.

When I played pretend with my friends, they all chose different names, more fantastical names. Genevieve, Calliope, Helena, Cassandra. I became Madeleine, the empress emerging from the girlish Maddie. Sometimes, I would take it even farther, pull my name back to it’s root: Magdalene. It meant “High Tower” or so the baby name websites professed. The High Tower of Joy, that was my name. I would be Mary Magdalene, the most faithful disciple who mourned at the cross of Christ and was the first one to see him resurrected to life. In my stories, when I’d build worlds of fantasy around myself, I would be Madgalena, the ruler of nine realms, who were populated with denizens of my imagination.

When I was older, my parents told me I must have been named after Madeleine Albright, the first female Secretary of State. She began her service for Bill Clinton in January of 1997, so it would be no stretch of logic to think my parents saw her on the news and decided she would be a fitting namesake. I was named after a strong, intelligent woman, one who was powerful and decisive, who left an indelible mark on the world. When people would ask for an interesting fact to remember me by for those obligatory get-to-know-you’s at school and work, I would say I was named after Albright. They would nod agreeably and say it was fitting. “My parents wanted me to be a powerful woman,” I said. I told this story to my high school teachers, college professors, and eventually even my law school colleagues. I was set in the image of an impactful diplomat and public servant and that was a point of pride to me.

Late into my first semester of law school, my mother suddenly stated my story was incorrect. Madeleine Albright was not the woman I was named after. Though the story had been repeated over and over, she was not my namesake. I was actually named after Madeleine L’Engle, the writer of A Wrinkle in Time, the author who my mother adored. Madeleine the Writer was my eponym.

I had read L’Engle’s books as a child, too. I poured through her fantastic worlds of God and philosophy, love and science. When I was twelve, Meg Murray was me, but I suppose any child can relate to a strange and insecure black sheep who loves too deeply and feels too fiercely. Her love is her power and she strikes against the darkness with all her might. Though I read it fifty years after publishing, it lost none of its mighty ability to affect me. My copy of A Wrinkle in Time was threadbare and beaten from endless re-readings. I wondered if I too could write that way, to create a world and fill it with people who seemed to be more real than reality.

“You are a writer, Madeleine,” my mother said to me. “You have always been a writer.”

There is so much power in a name. They tell stories, fill in context, build a world of memory in the mere stringing of syllables like Venetian glass beads. In the cloudy crystal of remembrance, the colors fade and change, ever swirling with the endless layers of meaning we divine. Our names are history we pass down, the reflections of people and past in the dark reflection of our present. They are stories, promises, whispers, and prayers. A name is who we are.

I am Madeleine. I am Madeleine the Writer, Madeleine the Diplomat, Madeleine the Disciple. I am all and I am none. In the grand scheme of things, it is all dust. Even memories are altered by time. But I will always love my name. It was bestowed upon me with love and I will cherish it, just as I cherish those who gave it to me.

I am who I am.