Briggs. That’s my mother’s maiden name. It is also my first name. It’s a strange name, often mistaken.
It is not Bryce, Brig, Brick, Bridge, Bricks — or even Prince, as one old man misheard.
This was one of many choices for my name. Most were nearly as strange, though I still would have preferred nearly all of them: Ronan, Cadmium, Van, Rory and one of my dad’s favorites — Boy.
But my great-grandmother had a dream before my birth that I would be Briggs, and so it was.
I don’t like my name. It doesn’t fit me.
But as the Bard would say, “A Briggs by any other name would still be a fool.”
