My Virginia necklace broke a few days before I moved to New York City. I’ve bought several of these necklaces over the years, as I constantly wear them out. My Virginia necklace accompanies me when I run, jingling against my neck as I pace down the street. I wear it at the beach, dipping it into the salty water as I dunk my head under. I wear it when I sleep, resting the Virginia pendent against my skin. It has become tattooed to my neck. People always point it out –– sparking a conversation. Its a symbol of not only my legal name, but of where I am from.
“You must really like the state of Virginia,” customers at the bar I worked at would say.
“It’s actually my first name,” I would reply. Most people responded with wide eyes and a long “Ohhhhhh,” fascinated that someone would be named after the state they were born in.
My Virginia necklace was a piece of home that I brought with me to college in Pennsylvania. Drunk frat boys would be baffled when they asked about my necklace. I would explain that yes, I am from Virginia and it is my first name, but that I go by Ginger.
“Your name is not Virginia,” one drunk guy, probably with a one syllable name that started with a J, said one Halloweekend. He, standing in a “Top Gun: Maverick” costume (very original), insisted that I was lying, that he just could not believe that was my name. I rolled my eyes and abandoned our drunken conversation.
I never saw that guy again.
I’d never met anyone with the same Virginia shaped necklace, until a few weeks ago while working at the bar. A woman came up to order a beer, and noticed my gold necklace, displayed over my work shirt.
“Oh my gosh, I have the same necklace,” she said, pulling hers out from under a stack of other gold necklaces. There it was, a miniature state of Virginia dangling from her neck, matching mine.
“I want to name my daughter Virginia,” she said to me after I explained the meaning behind my Virginia necklace.
No one had ever said that to me before. I’ve heard people point out names that they would want to name their child, names that my friends have or ones that matched girls I went to school with. Virginia was never one of them, so hearing this surprised me and made me smile.
I was able to fix my necklace after initially breaking it. I took a pair of tweezers and adjusted the small gold loop to thread the chain back into. I pushed the two ends of the loop together to close it, and clasped it right back on.
But then, I made the move to New York City. I packed all of my things in suitcases, trash bags and bins. I loaded my mom’s Jeep Grand Cherokee, my whole life stuffed inside of an SUV.
The weekend I moved into my new apartment, the same thing happened –– my necklace broke. But this time, I couldn’t fix it. Was this a sign of my new beginning? Was I shedding my former home for a new one? Would this move work out?
That meant I was leaving Virginia behind, and my necklace breaking permanently after moving in felt like an omen. While I may be leaving my home, Virginia will always be with me in my name. It’s on my ID and passport. It’s the “V” in my signature on a check. It’s the name I give when asked what my legal name is.
But this time, I won’t buy a new Virginia necklace, at least not for now. Maybe this is my way of embracing the new, exciting and scary future.
Educated Guesses 