Dryas Octopetala: A Visual Interpretation
Sue Yung
Dryas Octopetala.
Anderson Aven Cook
My name is Aven. Mountain avens are flowers that grow on icy, arctic tundras — despite convention or expectation or presumption. We thrive where others would falter. I thrive where others would falter. My name is Aven, but it wasn’t always. Once upon a time, I was a princess. A flower of a different sort from the other side of the world. A hot house kind of flower — fragile of petal, full of scent. Delicate. Easily broken.
I know what you’re wondering. Was it Jasmine? No. It was Jazmine. Jazmine Nicole Anderson. A name sure to never be found in a souvenir shop, but always on the top of Honor Roll lists. My father and older sister’s doing, because my mother was just thankful I survived. “Ten months before Disney got wise.” My sister tells everyone this detail, always defending her choices and who I became. The antithesis of princess. Never one for glitter or gowns.
You’re also probably wondering: Why? When my father gave it to me after giving me little else. When my sister defends it (me?) whenever she can. Why, my least favorite question. Because I can? Because it isn’t your business. Because I’m not your business. Because I am not who they thought I would be. “Difficult,” “hard-headed” — a leader, not a damsel. Because the name feels full in my mouth — “You’re spelling it wrong” — and saying it feels like pulling teeth. Why? Because I am who my mother and sister raised me to be. Because in a name, there is a person. A person who is a wealth of life, of experience, of emotion, of sensation, of memory. And in me there was an urge to shed what was false and begin anew.
My name is Aven, but my full name is Anderson Aven Cook. Maiden and married, married together for the rest of eternity. Too feminist to let go of the one piece I always cherished, too traditional to not take part of his. His shock that I ever would sealed the deal. A husband that never expected me to be less than what I said I was will be forever cherished. A new name to be embossed on awards and diplomas, debossed on heart and memory, each with time. I told him I would take it (of course) and keep it (forever). Hell or high water. Death or divorce. It’s mine now. He isn’t getting it back.
I chose to marry together my many pieces into a whole I could be proud of. I chose to celebrate my strength. I chose to celebrate every step and misstep that has brought me to this current summit of my still short life. I did this knowing full well that I will fall, stumble, and be torn apart. But just like a rose growing in concrete, I will always bloom again, growing fast and holding strong, wearing my scars like the heroine I am. Remembering the little girl who dreamed of being a conqueror, not a queen.
