It surprises me when I remember what my name means. It references Arthurian Legend, the name shared by a kind, gentle knight. Under the disguise of a peasant, he suffered constant abuse of those around him. He forgave them for their anger, and always spared those who were deserving. Knights of the round table cared for him like he was their own.

When I hear the name though, I don’t think of that gentle nature. I think of the sting of sticking your hands in the snow. Cracked stone walls of a castle, gray and white. I hear the roughness of each syllable, like chewing rocks. Passive, but unkind.

It’s a name similar to a nickname my grandfather once had. He always wanted to be called Gary. He was gone before I was around. All I know is that “he just liked the name.” When he was gone and I came around, they entrusted that name to me, or at least to it’s Welsh equivalent.

Gareth. The name of a gentle knight. It’s too foreign for most people. I’m often called Garrett, Garth, the off chance Gary. They try and simplify it, as though it’s an ugly math problem. My own family shortens it to G. It’s a breath of fresh air when someone gets it right.

Perhaps I could go by another name, one that fits that gentle legend. Gary sounds better, kinder. It’s all that comes to mind the days I ponder this. No longer will I hear my name and think of the snow, or the cold stone walls.