Viola

Viola. Vi-o-la. That is my name. Or at least part of it. I am Viola on a dotted line, but others exist. Try saying my name and the tip of your tongue will reach the roof of your mouth on the final syllable and then take a trip to your pallet as you pronounce la. I have always liked that about my name. La means no (لا) in Arabic, an irony I have become accustomed to as it is a word that refrains its semantic vowels from my lexicon. I can’t say no to Winston. Ophelia is nice however, she cares for me. 

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As a child I was always pleased with the sound of my own name. Despite its Italianate origins, there is also something suspiciously Illyrian about my name. Perhaps that is what intrigued my fantasies about the ambiguities of history, and in particular, the Greco-world of classics. Despite the Eastern flair of Twelfth Night, the Shakespearean play which my name is derived from, Illyria is said to represent nothing more than Shakespeare’s England. Thus, Viola can hardly be perceived as an Arabic name.