Young Writer Competitions

Death was close, invading his sleep. Someone was at the door again, his peace denied by another tiresome nurse. A greeting he could not respond to, he was beyond polite words now, beyond any words.  

Why don’t we let the light in, dad?  

There was light enough, the room illuminated beyond his eyelids, useless now save for the odd flutter when she touched his forehead, his hand, his cheek. Nell, yes, it must be, his only child, the circling of her thumb over his knuckles. There now, there now… 

He was a boy again, running along the strand. Arms out, wind caressing tender skin, threatening to lift his young body up, up, up, shirt catching like the ruffling feathers of a swan, in motion, in flight. On he ran, over sand parting in his wake, a trail of small, rapid footprints. The crash of the tide, its hasty retreat, attack, retreat, rush out to sea. The little boy, army of one, modern day Caligula, freezing Atlantic tide breaking around his knees. Standing with his arms out, take me, take me, echoing the cross. Come for me. Squawking seagulls overhead, swooping low, snatching what they can, the most arrogant of thieves. Then he too retreats, called back from play, from delirium to the rocks where his uncle stands, arms crossed, squinting at the boy against the sun, back to the looming mountains. Running back, socks soaking, forgetting to fear anger, snatching final moments of elated freedom.   

Look, there’s the swans coming up the canal. Ach aren’t they gorgeous, Dad? Didn't you used to paint them, the swans from home?  

There was a lightness in his bones - that was new. Almost like youth returning, ebbing like the tide. The nurse, in her sickening tone, had promised relief. Perhaps this was it. Yet, the room was full. A chorus of ancestors, suffocating him, their voices so loud in his ears and clearer than anything he had heard in years.  

I’m here now, like I promised you. I’m here.  

Harry’s voice, known from those early days when they were christened twin prodigies, kings of the classroom, drunk on youth and their own wasted talents. It was more than that. Harry’s familiar sent of cigarettes and cloves mingled with sea salt and sweat.  

A boat of their own, begged and bargained for, treasured, despite its size. Inexperienced sailors, their knees knocking together, their useless map spilling out over the side, soaked by the spray. Rocked by gentle waves with no destination except for the vast expanse of blue, or maybe Hy-Brasil. Harry singing, caring not for the words, delighting in the sound of his carrying voice. That melody passed from his mother’s people, thrown out across the waves, allowed to soar towards the dark cliffs and home again to his throat. That's not how I remember it, Harry. He’d heard the song often enough and loved it well. He laughed and kept singing, louder, louder, king of their stretch of coastline.  

Nell at his right hand, Harry too, drawing the life back to his fingers, growing ever colder now. They prayed with words he no longer understood, his heart beating slow to their steady rhythm, almost a chant, a vigil at his bedside, cast in the role of a dying saint. Behold, the great artist on his deathbed. He always imagined he would die at sea.  

It’s been a good life, hasn’t it?  

Were those tears which wavered his voice? Or age perhaps, finally catching up with him. There was something he needed to remember. A promise? No. The map, where was it? He needed it now to show him the way forward, to run his fingers along the coastline and the notes they made on that trip together, back to the kingdom of his childhood, only seventeen and so sure of themselves. Outside the window, a seagull shrieked, angered at some small defeat, a packet of crisps dropped into the canal.  

The sea, the sea. Vast Atlantic, gateway to the new world, giver of life, father of the port, his port. Somewhere in the first bloom of boyhood. Busy little harbour, sailors converge with wide brimmed hats and deep-pocketed overcoats, weather beaten, wind cutting deep creases into young skin. Restless horses, whinnying at idle carts, laden with goods, exotic, essential, world renowned. Hooves and feet and squawks and rolling barrels, ale splashing the wooden walls, a turbulent sea. He in the middle of it all, greedy senses hoarding the scene, captured in a few quick lines, sketches made perched on the harbour wall. Here old men came to relive youthful dreams of adventure. His home-made map, the first of its kind, gripped in his small hands, an early masterpiece. 

That was gone too. Where was Nell, where was Harry? Alone at last? No. In the corner, his brother stood, hands held out. Have you come to take me? Is she with you? Anne, she was close, he knew it, she was there, just beyond. He shook his head, for a poet he kept his words close, never letting them slip from his grasp., He looked younger than he had in years, his hair long, out of fashion with his high collared shirt, worn some fifty years ago for an occasion he no longer recalled. Where is she, my Anne, my love? Someone was singing a mourning song. A snatch of blue fabric, Anne’s wedding coat, a flash of her dark hair, long and free as it had been the day he first walked at her side along the strand. The veil was lifting.  

You’re going home, my boy.  

Whose voice was that? Rough with the gravel of a sailor, those words he had heard before and wept over. A young boy pleading to his uncle, this is my home, I belong here, with you. No tears came now, an aching relief, the decades falling away. No more pain. Silence. There it was, at last. The sea, the sea, the sea.

Bordering the sheet is the rushed silhouette of a body. Each dashed route and pathway is smudged into an indistinct blur. Tacked under colourful pushpins are the capitals—every landmarked organ that we mythicize in midnight poetry. Marvel at the overcrowded heart; lungs scrubbed raw; the insect-littered stomach, a reservoir of emotion; or perhaps the fallen brain, crossed out ten times over with feverish red ink.

Clutching this unconventional map is I, the uneasy explorer. This body is mine. Or, was mine. It’s been so long—or maybe just so intense—that navigating myself is now an impossible task.

Not too long ago, I gave away everything I had.

Yearning. Desperately chasing. Running after love. This process engulfs your being, until that’s who you become; that’s all you are. A yearner, a chaser, a lover. I wasn’t merely myself anymore. The graph of my body and all its functions, every secret location and treasured monument—it all belonged to you.

There was always something about you. You were not like me: the common earthly map—static, unchanging, comfortably traditional. Perhaps the best way to describe you was as the print of the universe. You were the wonder and ineffable fear of gazing up into the dark. The incessant movement of the stars from a planet where they seemed endlessly at rest.

That was the problem. You were always out of reach. I’d send my love into space—scream my amateur sonnets into the night sky. Then constellations would form, burning with flushed potential. You were beautiful, of course. Beautiful, and scary. But you wouldn’t accept my love, not really. You couldn’t.

I didn’t accept this for a long time. But, inevitably, the night broke into restful dawn. Moonlight was replaced by the tender colours of the sunrise. And with the morning haze came realisation.

I had to find myself again.

—

The stomach in particular scares me. The butterflies you could once find here—maybe photograph in brilliant shades of orange and blue—had decayed into mounds of coppery dust, swirling with flat emotion. The larynx isn’t much better, either. Another graveyard. I kick aside scraps of all the words we used to exchange, dead and hollow things. I look for the brain, too. Grab onto shattered nerves, marvel at the glow of pulsing signals under my fingertips and climb through torrents of crude emotion all until I find my destination. Completely deserted. “OUT OF COMMISSION”, a sign reads. I chuckle.

And then there’s the heart, of course. I don’t even stop to examine the damage. A predictable sight—the shattered pieces, the desperate bandages. Classic. And tiring. But there’s somewhere I know I need to reach in there—a remote location, a place even I can find without guidance.

I get there before I know it, pulling away the screaming caution tape holding me back. Everything my heart has ever whispered about you, and every wave of emotion that your memory triggers lives here. Imprints of you in stuttering, sad colours: your undefinable stare, the overcast expression you’d have most days. The pain, and the fear, and all the emergent shadows that buried you as far away from me, and everything else, as you could get.

It had been so dark here. Everything would power on for those special few weeks, then come crashing back down into lonely quiet. It was hard to do anything in the dark. Walks down linear roads distorted into labyrinthine streets. Chasing you down monstrous paths, through stifling gloom, to no avail. Loving you became a bitter and barren task—lost all its brilliance and joy. Our manmade attempts to forge your smile, or to switch on ‘happy’ in you, will always flicker off into stinging nothingness. I know, because it happened every time.

But there’s something here. Something… different. A dim glow is pulsing from within, the colour of trembling hope. Strange. With a shallow breath, I place my hands on the blushing walls, expecting them to waver under my touch. But I only feel a restless movement—the shaky excitement and blooming warmth of first meetings. Still there.

Under my feet, something vivid remains—the rolling anticipation of locked eyes; the potential energy of your hand in mine. The soft echoes of the vast waters, and wistful, storybook sunlight that drifts over warm, winding roads. It all dances around me—through me and beyond me.

With awe, I trace the branching pathways that sprawl from vein to vein. Everything’s still here, and more. It all flows back. A confession, your embrace, the solidity of your arms in spite of it all. That heavy closeness, enduring emotion, feverish dreams… and the past, and the future, and now. Right now, I saw… beauty. 

It was strange. It was all so strange. You were hiding. Running. Gone. Yet, you’re… here. And… you’re happy.

It seems like you’re happy.

“But… that’s not how I remember it,” I breathe softly to myself. “You were…”

I trail off into the sounds of laughter and airy chirping—nature’s song. A quilted blue sky with porcelain clouds. Cool, easy shades of green, and the stillness of concrete under my feet. A familiar, bright ambience I knew by heart.

Here. Everything brought me here. I’m outside a park again, suspended in motion at a simple black fence. Waiting in the exact spot you had looked at me so differently to anyone else, a vague wonder in your eyes.

“Close your eyes,” you had softly requested that day, in front of some postcard-looking tree. A picturesque location, yes, but nerves had stripped my mouth dry with unidentified emotion. So, I waited for another, braver day—a better time.

And we kissed eventually, under weeping skies, in the middle of throbbing rain—the memory now a permanent landmark in my mind.

I look down again; the map is gone. But now, I can finally see what’s in front of me, just like it was before: great, brilliant trees, with riches of flowering white blossoms, towering into the afternoon sky, embraced by the breeze.

It was beautiful. I hadn’t even noticed.

You see these lines? Carl asked, circling his finger around a point on a large paper map sprawled open on the dashboard. The fold-lines were sharp, the map had not left the glovebox of the old Ford in years. They’re called contour lines, he said. It means there’s a hill there. The closer together the lines are, the steeper the hill. You can’t see it on this, but your new home is just around here. Grace’s face flickered tentatively between smiling and crumpling. 

                  Is mummy coming with us?  

Carl was hardly used to her being able to talk coherently. He paused for a few seconds and stared at her. Mummy is gone, Grace, he said. Her mouth opened slightly but she made no sound. 

Come on, Carl, leave it there, he thought, don’t lie to her. He wanted to be honest then, but when he met his daughter’s pooling eyes, he added; So we need to make the place look perfect and loved for when she gets back! The three-hour drive turned into four and then five as the little car, packed full of luggage and unanswerable questions, struggled up the hill. As they pulled into the driveway, the rusted gates welcomed Carl home like his mother’s open arms used to – his childhood home was perfectly isolated, the gift of an introverted architect, and had sat gutted and abandoned for years watching over the forest. Carl’s grandfather had left it to his daughter, who in turn left it to Carl. He had not been back since he first left.
Grace was more helpful than one would expect a four-year-old girl to be; she moved box after box from the boot into the blank house with enthusiasm. They stopped for a moment to rest from the heavy lifting and to appreciate the view of the forest from the balcony. Grace jumped on Carl’s back for a minute to see over the balcony, then climbed back down. We are very far away, she said.  

Yes, that’s the beauty of the place. 

                  What if mummy cannot find us out here? 

Carl raised his eyebrows and inhaled deeply. She’ll find us, he said, she could always - can - can always find places. I’m going to explore a bit more. don’t lift anything until I get back.
His face tensed into itself as he walked away from his daughter. 
The bathroom had a cabinet over the sink with a mirror on the front. Gripping the sides of the sink Carl stared into his own eyes, commanding them not to well up. His orders were ignored, and he crumpled like tissue. He sat crying on the cold bathroom tiles for some time, massaging his forehead with one hand and stifling his cries with the other. Grace had been running about the house looking for him. She called something up the stairs. He composed himself, and called back down to her, One minute Gracie. His call echoed in the bathroom, and sounded back to him in some shaky, unrecognisable parody of his own voice. He got up and washed his face with cold water. The red residue of his tears was persistent, he quickly gave up trying to hide it. He unlocked the bathroom door and walked downstairs.
He could not find Grace downstairs. He called her name to no response, and she wasn’t in the Ford. He started to run around the house shouting her name, chased by Loss itself, his imagination performing all the worst possible scenes; she was lost in the forest, fallen off the balcony, crawling on the roof – all of these were true to him at once, and he ran faster. 
He finally saw her out of an upstairs window. She was sitting in the overgrown garden, reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. See you soon, Loss said, giving up the chase and dissipating like an anticlimactic raincloud. Carl caught his breath and walked slowly down to the back door. Grace smiled and dropped her book when she saw her father. 
I couldn’t find you, Grace, I was worried. Don’t wander off like that. 

                  Sorry, I was in Wonderland. She smiled, picked the book back up and held it to her chest. 

Be careful with that book. It’s a first edition. An heirloom. 
Grace lost her smile, upset by his tone. Carl sighed and sat down next to her in the grass. He took the book and threw it to the whim of gravity; it landed heavily in the dirt a few feet away from them.
You know, the last time I was here, I was packing, ready to move with your mother into the city.
Grace said nothing. Carl had given up smoking after Grace was born, but he longed for a cigarette.  
It’s so empty, isn’t it? That’s not how I remember it at all. My mum, dad, brothers, sister, however many cats, were around constantly, noisy as the city. Just us now. Me and you against the world, Gracie.
Grace smiled softly. When mummy gets here, she will make it more happy, she said.
Tell her, Carl, explain to her, be a father, he thought.
Let’s go bring the rest of those bags in, so that mummy doesn’t have to carry anything when she gets here, he said.
The sun set late, about eight o’clock, and they watched it fall below the trees from the balcony. 
Where does the sun go after it sets, daddy?
What?
When the day is finished, and the moon comes. Where does the sun go?
Carl thought for a long time. They sat in silence watching the moon materialise above them.
Somewhere nice, Gracie. I’m sure it goes somewhere nice. And it still keeps us warm: in fact, all the light the moon gives us is really the sun’s light, reflecting. Even when the sun is gone, Gracie, it still keeps us warm. Remember that, Gracie. Remember that. 

June 1964

Two girls lie on their backs in a meadow, cabbage butterflies flittering over their heads and summer air cloying and sweet in their mouths, teeth numb with sun and teenage thrill. Lips pink. Minds racing. A discarded map lays in the grass next to them. 

 “Told you, Cissa.” Alice grins. “All this, an hours walk from your house.”

Hills dotted with daffodils and wildflowers sprawl out at their feet — endless exploration and escape that they’d found from a red cross scribbled on an old map in Alice’s dusty attic. Treasure spot, she’d told her.

“I had to jump out the front window for this, you know,” Cissa rolls over onto her back, gold hair catching sunlight. “My mother will kill me.”

Alice tilts her head. Her eyes are hiding things, flecks of green crawling as ivy does, to shield, to protect. “You’ll be okay, though?” She swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you come out.” 

“Of course I will.” Cissa lies, picking at the grass stains on her knees. “Why don’t you tell me about the new Beatles album, Alice.”

Her eyes crinkle like she knew they would, and she watches the way Alice lights up: waving her hands, all rosy and passionate. Spools of honeyed light dance over their arms, thread falling from a celestial bobbin. 

“What?” Alice stops with a laugh. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Nothing. I’m not looking at you. Just—” A soft wind tickles her skin, ruffles Alice’s dark hair. It’s shining with a myriad of brightly coloured ribbons — candied fruit, sharp jewels. “Colour looks good on you.” She settles on.

Alice raises a brow. “Thanks, I suppose.” She considers, splaying her hands out into the dirt. “Colour would look good on you too, if you let it in.”

Cissa attempts to hide her smile. “I was thinking I might try red lipstick. It could be my thing.”

“I can’t wait to see that.” Dimples pop up on Alice’s face. “You always reminded me of cherries.”

Youth is whimsy and pretty on the girls as wise, knobbly trees twist up and over them, small fingers of shade for sweet flesh. Summer dares Cissa to search for secrets: constellations of freckles on Alice’s round cheeks, and to count them up and store them for the winter when they disappear. There is a beat of silence.

“Can we be here forever?” Alice whispers suddenly. “Just us and this, where your mother doesn’t hate me and where she isn’t mean to you. Where we don’t have to grow up. Where we can be girls with each other. You and your ocean eyes and me.”

“I wish,” She trails off. Alice — girl that belongs to the wild and adventures and wearing pants and riding bikes. And Cissa. No. She shakes her head. No, it’s impossible. There’s a lump in her throat. “Let’s just remember this, then? This moment.”

Slowly, Alice reaches for Cissa’s hand.

A thrum pulses beneath her fingers, and she knows that they are watered and fed by hope and laughter. Summer ripens her dear fruits for inevitable plucking, leaving them to lie until they are scooped up into a casket. 

December 2023

Alice knows that she was young, once, even if she doesn’t exactly remember the raw taste of childhood, the bright pulses of teenage years and the slow, fast descent from adulthood to where she lingers now. 

Blink and you’ll miss it. 

She mourns her salad days all the same.

Wrinkles sink and raise her skin, a tram on uneven ground, lightning streaking the sky. There is something divinely torturous about existing for this long. Having such thin, stained, ancient eyes. 

Who will miss her? Well Alice has visitors, yes, of course, who remember her even when she forgets them. There is a boy that turned into a man in the blink of an eye, and a strange woman who sits, throat bobbing. She never speaks. Actually, she hasn’t visited Alice’s ward in some time.

 Inhaling, Alice shuffles out of her bed with a good degree of effort. For years, she’s been asking herself who she is. Why she’s here, because she’s a forgetful soul, at least that’s what the nurse tells her, with a pitiful smile and shake of her head. You can never cling to one bit of information for long, Alice dear. That’s just how you work now, and it’s terribly sad and frustrating, I know that. But it’ll all get better soon, and you’ll be happy. 

What she means is Alice is dying. 

Something urgent striking her, she digs for the shoe box under her mattress. The map crinkles, a red cross faded pink; so fragile that Alice thinks it treasure.

Like magic, for a moment she is whisked back to a golden time. A meadow. A girl.

But Alice stumbles on icy ground. Winter has settled here: cold teeth tearing into flesh, starving for a good hunt in the barren lands she cultivates — sitting on a throne of yellow carcasses. Naked toes in snow. Demanding sacrifice. 

An unkindness of ravens blots out the weak water sun. 

“That’s not how I remember it.” Alice croaks, clutching the map, half-delirious and looking for—

A young, skinny girl with blonde hair and eyes that twinkle like oceans gives her a smile. Her form flickers, bright around the edges. 

Grazed knees and turned backs. A burst of colour. Scars and regrets. Bones knocking and leaving.

Silence.

For a second, a sea, a river, all the water on the planet rushes forth, frothing in white delight. Fizzling over into space. The earth rolls her shoulders back with a sigh, relishing.

“Hello.” The girl says, looking somehow blissful and sad. “Alice, my girl.”

“I’m not a girl.” She replies hoarsely. Alice’s heart is pulling, unravelling over miles of ground she’s never felt.

“We were.” The girl is firm. Her lips are red, like cherries. “We soon will be again, I hope.”

‘Call me Violet,’ –

I distinctly remember saying this to my parents around age 6, attempting to convince them to change my name. Going to a predominantly white primary school and being surrounded by phonetically obvious names, I often found that mine was difficult to comprehend. 

When asked how my name was decided, my parents provided an anecdote detailing how they had watched a Bollywood movie where the heroine’s name was Gehna, and had immediately loved it. More than this, they admired the meaning behind the name - jewel - and always encouraged me to stick with it, emphasising how, at least to them, I fit this description. 

Having migrated from India to the UK in the late 1990s, my parents were faced with the added complexity of how my name, as it was pronounced in India, would not be read the same way here. To overcome this, they went through a series of trials, testing the name on their English friends and seeing whether they were able to say it. From the data of these surveys, they realised that for it to maintain its closest pronunciation to the Indian one, they needed to change something. Hence, they landed on my current first name: Gehhna. 

Despite all their efforts, my name is consistently mispronounced. For example, I’ve been referred to as: 

• Gina
• Gay-na
• Ghana
• Gemma
• Jenna And many more.

My name has also, to my surprise, not been an obvious indicator of my ethnicity. As someone who considers themself quite obviously Indian it was a shock to me when people thought I was Latina, Malaysian, and even Bulgarian. Regardless, what shocked me most was when Indians themselves failed to recognise me as a fellow Indian, often guessing my roots lay elsewhere. It made me realise the reliance I had placed on my name to allow people to place me. My name seemed to play a greater role than simply a reference for me, rather, it provided a means of recognition, a connection between me and my cultural identity. I questioned whether, in adding addendums to my name to make it easier for me to assimilate into this new culture, I lost a certain connection with my heritage. 

Perhaps it was the way my name was pronounced, my mother always placed a certain emphasis on the ‘h’ (hence the addition of an extra one just to make sure it really stuck). Because of this, phonetically my name, when pronounced by non-indians, sounds like ‘Ge-heh-na’. Unfortunately for me, because of this overly clarified pronunciation, people often spelt my name as ‘Gehenna’ - in Christian belief a place of eternal punishment and torment. Although this has never personally affected me, nor has anyone I’ve met ever mentioned this curious fact, living in a country where, at least according to my Religious Studies GCSE, Christianity is considered the main religious tradition, I can’t imagine this is a great reputation to have attached to me. 

Nonetheless, it fascinates me to see how my name, with roots in Sanskrit, has such a different meaning to the Christian meaning, which has roots in Greek, and yet can sound so similar. It made me question whether and in what way, say, a devout Christian who believes in this place of ‘Gehenna’ would view me differently to how an Indian woman, born and brought up in India who spoke Hindi, would if they each met me for the first time. Does my name really speak volumes about my cultural heritage if other cultures and religions hold different meanings for the word, and has the westernisation of my name (whether by pronunciation or spelling) impacted the extent to which I’m perceived as Indian? 

When speaking to my parents about their experience when first visiting the UK, I began to further realise their motivation in altering the spelling of my name. My mother’s first visit was in 1989 to Birmingham. Being her first long term stay, she was visited by many of her English-Indian cousins, most of whom warned her about crime rates and racial abuse, instructing her not to go out by herself. Coming from a small town in Punjab where her father was a police officer, she was not accustomed to such rigid restrictions and infringements upon her lifestyle. Quickly, she felt restrained and viewed the UK as unsafe, especially for her as a brown woman. Moreover, her cousins would joke about her pronunciation of words, mimicking her and highlighting how her English was different from theirs. Needless to say these jokes stuck with her. Although light-hearted in spirit, with the ever present pressure of having to assimilate into a foreign culture post marriage, each joke felt less and less humorous. Even still my mother never held a grudge. Being Sikh, a religion in which even the concept of revenge or ‘badla’ doesn’t exist, she truly retained the spirit of her culture despite the move. When I was younger she would often speak about her desire for my brother and I to adopt what was referred to as ‘the Queen’s English’. This signified the posh, perfect pronunciation people jested she did not have. In some ways, this wish of hers for my brother and I explains the need for the extra letters in my name. She wanted my name to have the same clarity to the English that this ‘Queen’s accent’ had, a clarity those around her joked she did not. 

Therefore, I find my name speaks further than simply to my lineage. It speaks to the need to assimilate, the feeling of belonging, and the journey that my immigrant parents took, like many others, to bring me to where I am today. Throughout periods of confusion and even desire to change my name, it stayed a constant in my evolving identity. Because of this, I now feel an immense sense of pride in it, knowing that it helped to connect me to India and England, my two cultural identities, at the same time. 

“Do you still want to change your name when you’re older?” 

I am in the passenger seat of my dad’s car when the question leaves his lips, and a pang of guilt reverberates through my body. It comes off light-hearted – like most things my dad says – as if out of curiosity or like it had just been a passing thought. And yet, as he looks out to the traffic light ahead of us, I imagine he is reminiscing on my primary school years and the first time I had asked if I could change my name. I worry if his heart sank. I wonder if my mother regretted the name she chose after hearing her little girl express a burning desire for a new one. They both laughed off the request when I was 6, but in the car, years later, I feel the impact of my thoughtless wish, which weighed down on my parents’ minds and hearts. It became a concern – they think I hate my name. 

My name is Yngie, pronounced ‘In-Jee’. My mother’s name is Filipina, shortened to Ynah, and my father’s name is Regidor, shortened to Regie. My name is an amalgamation of theirs, a symbol of their union, a ‘ship name’ even. As a child I was unaware of how common practice this method of naming is in the Philippines. Mashing their names together is a way for parents to gift their child with a unique title, one rarely ever heard or seen before. And yet, I never appreciated the thought or the tradition. All I understood was that it was absurd to most, a name that nobody else has, which I interpreted as a name that nobody wants.  

While my feelings towards my name have changed considerably since my childhood, I can still recall the reasons I so desperately sought a new one. The obvious is something most people with eccentric names can relate to; my name is typically met with jokes, rhymes, mispronunciations and misspellings. The latter two are so common, at some point it gets tiring to correct every wrong form your name takes. They are inconvenient, but for the most part carry no ill-intention. What were slightly more harmful to the 6-year-old me were the jokes, and laughter that followed them. I could sometimes understand how a pun might be funny, but the jokes were more often alienating, with little me left in the dark, suppressing the suffocating embarrassment, laughing along only because everyone else did too.  

My name was just another thing that othered me, another non-conforming aspect of my being. My Catholic primary school community was largely white, black and mixed-race kids. You could count the number of Southeast Asian children on your fingers. Consequently, the friends I made came from cultures that contrasted mine, as did their appearances. Being immersed in a multicultural community is a blessing that I believe has positively shaped my perspective of the world. But in my younger years, I found myself wanting to assimilate, rather than indulge in and endorse my own culture. White friends, white princesses and white female leads on American TV shows were the building blocks for my standard of beauty. Wanting to pick a new name went hand in hand with wishing my hair were golden blonde and that my skin would magically appear some shades lighter after every shower. Younger Yngie wanted nothing more than to wake up and see a white girl in the mirror. Fortunately, with age comes experience, discovery and growth. I learned more about my own ethnic background and saw myself represented in Asian media. As of writing this, I have never been more comfortable in my body and name.  

 I now partake in the same unyielding Pinoy pride instilled in most Filipinos from birth. However, being raised in London means there is an unfortunate disconnect with my heritage. My parents have done everything in their power to incorporate Filipino culture into my daily life, but it is inevitable for diasporic children to lose parts of the full experience. I am fed Filipino food; I celebrate Filipino traditions; my parents employ Filipino customs in our house and speak Tagalog. I comprehend everything they say, but speaking will not come as easily, especially when success in professional aspects of my life have required nothing less than impeccable English. I do not know what it’s like to wake up to street vendors bellowing ‘Taho!’, or what it’s like to practise dancing the tinikling for school festivals, jumping over bamboo sticks to the rhythm. My knowledge of Filipino history comes down to independent research I've done during school projects in which my pride as a Filipino takes lead when choosing a topic. There are many aspects of being Filipino that I haven’t gotten to know, and yet, I’d like to believe I have experienced, in full, the most important aspect of it, the most basic Filipino value: the unbreakable family bond. My name exhibits the thickness of blood; it signifies every sacrifice they have made for me; it is my mother’s and my father’s and mine.  

The name ‘Yngie’ was never something to be embarrassed about. It’s not a name I’ll ever see on a keychain in a souvenir shop, and it will always be met with hesitation, followed by a ‘How do I pronounce this one?’ when next in a roll call. It’s not a ‘white’ name, but one that carries my Filipino lineage with each letter. It is a learned lesson, a testimony that I journeyed to feel safe in my skin and admire the person I see in my reflection. It is distinctive, innovative and, most importantly, a gift from the most important figures in my life, who named me with undying love.   

The traffic light turns green, and my dad shifts gears. I reassure him with unwavering certainty.  

“I don’t want to change my name. I promise, I won’t.”  

Torikubu Qismat Issah. 

“That’s too long.” 

Torikubu Qismat Issah. 

“Too confusing.” 

Torikubu Qismat Issah. 

“I can’t pronounce that; do you have a nickname?” 

Fine, ill be Tori. The loud one. The large one. The annoyingly opinionated one. This condensed version of my name came from a single day – my first day – in a new school after moving from the cultural mixing pot that is Forest gate, to the less diverse, more conservative Hornchurch. The neighbours, less neighbourly. The home, less homely. And for the first time in my extremely short life, I felt incongruous. A black stain on the perfectly white backdrop I had fallen upon, I had to become Tori.  

On my first day, a little boy approached me. My new school wasn’t what sent me home in tears that day, instead, it was the earth-shattering question he asked me the second I entered the room. 

“Why are you black?” 

I stood in shock, confusion.  

Why was I black?  

The first day of year one was the first day I felt different. Different in so many ways. 

Firstly, I wasn’t Emily. I wasn’t Rose or Jessica. Nor was I Maisie, daisy, Annabelle or Christelle. My name didn’t sound pretty nor flowy nor airy. Torikubu is tribal. Torikubu is neanderthal. Long, confusing, too much, too dark, too heavy. All what I connoted to this one word that I never noticed before. 

Secondly, I wasn’t a smith. I wasn’t a Jones or a Williams. Nor was I a Thomas or Taylor, Brown or Barnes. I was an Issah. I had Islamic roots deeply woven into my being, and a name showing a devotion – a devotion my grandmother (A revert) had cultivated in her kitchen in Ghana, feeding it to her kids who fed it to me. And I had carried with pride until that day. 

Lastly, I was black. Plain and simple, the only black person in the year, hoping and praying for someone familiar, something familiar, to appear in the classroom to comfort me. A yearn took over me. A yearn I had never been plagued with before. I yearned to fit in. I craved conformity. I needed to change, and that started with the only thing I could control – my name. If I had to be different, I could do it under the table, like a shameful secret or shady deal. If I had to stand out, I could at least make my boldness easier for my new surroundings to stomach. Less uncomfortable to deal with.  

The idea of condensing my name into a box of normality, slicing it into the Overton window felt strange. Torikubu had only ever been shortened to “Kubs” by my brother. Ironically, his full name had also been cut for the ease of the English lounge from Yeng-balang to Yeng. But he can’t be blamed, he followed the footsteps of my father Atta-Ullah Issah, who for business reasons, had reformed his name into just “Essa”; not only neglecting his forename entirely, but respelling his surname to be more phonetic. Easier. Less confusing. Less himself.  

And who could he follow? Only those who had migrated before him, or those who had seen success through suppression of their names. Idrissa Elba to Idris Elba. Thandiwe newton to Tandie newton. Any way to avoid the side-eyes or snickers that slither through a classroom when a teacher struggles through the few syllables your name contains, isolating you from the Eurocentric norm. So – like I did – they all oppressed to assimilate.  

And even at the age of 6, this didn’t feel right to me. Although it may not seem like a big deal, the weight that came with these names was lost completely eradicating history, culture and identity by eradicating one or two syllables. Tandie newton lost her Zimbabwean name, translating to beloved. Her name meant to love, to cherish, to adore and yet Thandie was seen as more fitting. My brother’s name translating to “Wisdom is not combined” is shortened to just “wisdom”, losing its full meaning with only a few tiny cuts. My dad’s Wala and Arabic name mirrored that of his father, translating to “Gift of god”, which is exactly what mine translates to.  

Torikubu; gift of God.  

Qismat; faith.  

Issah; messenger of God, God's promise. 

That day – my first day – was the first day I had chosen to adopt Tori, as an alternative to what I chose to cover. However now, with over ten years more experience and knowledge, I have come to the controversial conclusion that it was not a choice. A choice indicates I was left with viable options, which the little girl stood in Mrs. Wilsons year one classroom, being faced with massive, formidable questions, feeling helplessly alone and sticking out like a raven in a dove’s territory, I was faced with no choice. Torikubu wasn’t wanted anymore, Tori needed to take the reins. 

It took time, but now I can proudly say I am Torikubu Qismat Issah. Although the majority of those I meet call me by my abbreviated alternative, I am no longer afraid of the secret getting out. I am proud to be god’s gift, I am proud to be faith and I am proud to be a messenger of God. The English tongue may not like the taste of my West African seasonings, it may be spicy and too unfamiliar. However, with the support of every person who worked incredibly hard to get me to stand in the position I am today, as well as the love that I have for the girl I see in the mirror, and therefore my heritage. I am from Ghana, I am from a long line of religion, I am not too big, confusing or too much.  

I am Torikubu Qismat Issah.  

I am Torikubu Qismat Issah.  

I am Torikubu Qismat Issah.  

Who are you? 

I am Scottish, my name is not.  

My name is Hebrew. My name is English. My name is Rebecca Isabel Alison Tidswell, and my name is not Scottish. 

“What story does my name tell about my cultural heritage?” Reading that question left me discouraged and frustrated. Heritage for me has always been my home, the city and country I live in and the culture surrounding it. My heritage is intertwined with my Scottish roots, becoming one and the same in my mind. I thought it impossible to talk about my cultural heritage without mentioning Scotland. But now I cannot; because my name is not Scottish. 

I did not know what to write, how to start, or what the focus could be, but was told by a friend, “What about your last name? Where does it come from?” Truthfully, I did not know. I knew it was English; my father, from whom I inherited the name, was a white South African and English man with an English name, making me English. I don't feel English. I was born in Scotland with a Scottish mother and a very Scottish grandfather. However, it was part of my cultural heritage that I knew nothing about. So, this essay became an investigation, and you are going to learn about my cultural heritage right alongside me. 

Upon exploring, Tidswell turned out to be a locational surname hailing from a place called Tideswell in Derbyshire, England. Research of the name “Tideswell” itself showed me that it is thought to be derived from the Old English personal name “Tidi.” This then combined with “wella,” which meant spring or stream. Meant that the name Tidswell may be interpreted as “Tidi’s spring” or “stream belonging to Tidi.”  

The discovery to me that my name had a place and was not some meaningless word used to identify me was surprising. However, what touched me was the fact that I had a starting point. This is where my family began many years ago, and though they have spread across the world in dozens of branches, I can still look at a map and say, “there, that's where I came from. That's where my heritage started.”  

This discovery left me spiralling. I was enticed and intrigued by the revelations of my heritage, their origins that had previously been meaningless to me. So, I turned to my middle name or one of them, Alison. The name Alison itself is not important, but why I got it is. Alison is my mother's name. Where I get my Scottish blood and a direct connection to my culture.  

This may be a cliche line, but I feel in this instance it rings true; that in order to know about me and my culture, you have to know about her. My mother was raised in Scotland on a farm by her father, a farmer – which is probably why she and all my siblings are so stubborn – and a schoolteacher, her mother. It was her mother who taught her to sow, and her who taught me, and I have even taken up embroidery like my grandmother. Clearly a passed down passion. She is the reason I use the words “Chuffed” and “fath” and that I know how to make a mean plate of stovies. Why I slap my knees and go “right” when I go to stand up from the couch. 

She is the one that made pillows with depictions of family trees for friends and relatives. She has a love of highland cows that I share and tones of different scarves and candles that I too have started to collect. She shares my dislike for riding and my love for curry. While possessing a mind-boggling amount of patience that I presume you can only achieve by raising three kids that love to bicker and is so forgiving it's frustrating. She is my point of reference for everything, a reliable constant that shaped the image of my cultural heritage. 

My mother is my cultural heritage in the way that she represents what I have learned (actively or not) about it. She is where I came from, who I learned from, the reasons for many of my habits and preferences and is the most important part of my origin and the way I live my life by a landslide. My mother is the perfect living, breathing reminder of my cultural heritage, and she is who my name represents. 

I considered none of this before. I ignored my names; I ignored their meaning, and I did not value how grateful I should be to be sharing a name with someone who represents so much for me or possessing a surname that allows me to uncover my history.  

I must say thank you for making me dig a little deeper in this essay. In the end, I learned a lot about my name. I learned that while I don't feel English, I am. I don't feel South African, I am. I am Scottish but also more, even if my names are not