The Art of My Name
Welcome to the classroom where names learn to dance across paper and color finds a voice.
Mrs. Rivera clapped her hands. "Today we'll make the art of our names," she said, eyes twinkling.
Maya tapped a paintbrush and wondered what her name would look like if it were a picture.
Some classmates pictured roaring lions or glowing galaxies; ideas floated like colorful kites.
But Maya thought her name was ordinary, and ordinary felt like a plain gray sock that didn't match her shoes.
Maya painted the first letter, and the letters shuffled and floated away like butterflies.
Amir tugged his red cap and showed Maya how he turned his name into a streaking kite that pulled the wind.
Mrs. Rivera told them names are woven from songs, stories, and the small hands that whisper them at bedtime.
At home Maya found an old photo with a painted name on the frame — a tiny signature she had never noticed.
She learned one language called 'Maya' a dream, another said 'illusion' — both felt like quiet magic.
Maya tried letters made of waves, letters made of cinnamon steam, and letters with tiny family faces in them.
Then—whoosh—a cup of paint tipped and splashed across the 'M' until it blurred into a sad, wet smudge.
Maya's shoulders drooped; the page looked ruined and her bravery felt thin like torn paper.
Amir made a goofy face that twisted his cap and made the whole table burst into giggles.
Then Maya saw the smudge as a river and an extra hill; the accident became a new idea instead of an end.
She painted the 'M' into mountains, the 'a' into a lantern, the next 'y' into a tiny boat — each letter a tiny story.
But when they tried to mount the folded letters, glue would not hold the delicate shapes together.
Maya smiled and suggested sewing them with colorful thread, and everyone hummed as needles stitched stories into the canvas.
Stitches and paint joined each name into a bright, tangled tree that climbed across the classroom wall.
At the assembly, Mrs. Rivera pulled back the curtain and the tree shimmered with languages, memories, and little surprises.
Maya realized her name was not just letters — it was a bridge of stories she could keep adding to for years.
Every child stepped forward to add a tiny mark — a stitch, a doodle, a memory — proving names grow with us.
Back Page — The Art of My Name: Keep looking, asking, and adding — your name is a painting that you make every day.
