The universe is full of questions. And one of the most frequent ones I’m asked is whether my name is Spanish or French. I hear it from about half of the people I meet, as if that somehow changes the type of person I am. The other half just assumes which it is. That works for me though, because I feel the way its spelled doesn’t really matter. Whether it’s Spanish or French, it still means consecrated to God, which I think is silly because no one in my family stays consecrated to anything for long.

I try not to get worked up about it. What does it matter, whether I’m spelled with one L or two, or have an extra syllable or a silent E at the end? A handful of letters doesn’t matter to me. At least, not enough to correct anyone over.

But sometimes, I like to pretend there are different versions of me floating around out there.

Am I cornflower blue, impressionistic? The French always seemed to love nights under the full moon, all ethereal and romantic and lavender-smelling. Or at least that’s the vibe I get from the old movies that gather dust on our bookshelf by the TV. But I can see why that atmosphere is appealing. And Isabelle captures its essence.

Izzy, on the other hand, is harsher. It’s bright and bold, and isn’t fond of shadows. It loves the spotlight. It has spunk. It’s lime green and sounds like… Britney Spears. Or something. I’ve never really met anyone like her and really don’t want to. Maybe I just have a bad rap with the name though. How could people mistake me for someone like that? The Izzy in my head probably has zebra-print pillowcases. My vibe’s closer to… vintage chic.

But to my close friends, my family, and myself, I am Isabel. This one’s my favorite, because it is my own. It’s… balanced. It looks pretty regardless of whose hand it’s written in. And it’s not just one color. It’s a whole rainbow; one of leafy greens and yellow ochres, cherry reds and cobalt blues all pulsing to the beat of my heart. And it rolls off the tongue, too. None of the harsh Z’s. It allows you to savor it more, that taste it holds. Sweet dark chocolate. And the scent of the air after a summer storm, all hot and sticky.