My Irish Catholic grandmother, whose maiden name was Mary Lorraine Quinn, included a very heartfelt prayer in her nightly intercessions: to live long enough to meet all of her grandchildren. Not only did Grandma Lorraine's prayer come to fruition, but seven of her twenty-six grandchildren were given a variation of her name. I am one of them. My name is Quinn Lorraine, passed down from my father, Kevin Quinn.
I have always been proud of my name. My dad tells me it means, "wise one," which I am more than happy to accept as truth (although I am still not sure whether this is accurate). As a child, it made me feel special because I didn't know anyone else who had the letter "q" in their name, and so many people commented on how pretty it was. But what has always made me most proud is telling these commenters where my name came from.
My grandmother called me "Quinnie," and was the epitome of sweetness. Her smile was full of joy and her laughter was always genuine. Whenever we visited, she welcomed us into her Minnesotan home with goulash and a hug. She made me and my siblings sock monkeys, taught me how to play her organ, and told us about our father at our age. She gave generously to her community through service and went to Mass every day.
Though Mary Lorraine passed away almost three years ago, her memory is an essential part of who I am. I remember her each time someone comments on the beauty or uniqueness of my name. I remember her each time I talk to my cousins who also carry a version of her name. I think of her when I sign my name on a check, a contract, or a letter.
My hope is that through these remembrances, I can exude even a fraction of her loving spirit.
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