It was because of my immeasurable imagination that my dad nicknamed me Gatsby. I loved the name, but never understood it. After taking a break from dreaming up cotton candy clouds, beautiful yellow ball gowns, and my Prince Charming, I picked up a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. I realized that the Gatsby my dad was referring to was Jay Gatsby. I told my dad about my discovery and he said it was about time I read about the man that would be my best friend if he actually existed.
When I read the book I did not initially see the connection between us. When I asked my dad, he said we were similar because “you both live in your imagination with vivid fantasies. You have a sense of innocence. You would always protect those you love, and are proud of who you are despite difficulties.” With that fatherly insight, I decided to re-read the classic novel where “gin was the national drink, and sex the national obsession.” With every page, the correlation between us became more and more recognizable. It was his willingness to take blame for the murder of Myrtle and his countless fights, or “creative discussions”, that