Last month, my boyfriend Patrick and I drank a bottle of Jim Beam at the lake and decided to get married. When we peeled our faces off a sticky, half-deflated air mattress the next morning, we asked ourselves two questions: first, did we still want to get married, and second, how about some Taco Bell? Yes to both, thank you.
Eventually the time came for parental phone calls, and mine were excited and curious: where would our wedding be? When? Several minutes into the call, I heard my mom muse, almost absent-mindedly, “Andrea Hislastname ….” She didn’t ask if I would be changing my last name; she simply said what she believed my new name would be, just to see how it rolled off her tongue.
Patrick’s family did ask about changing my name, at least. And I told them: no, I’m not changing my name. For that matter, neither is Patrick. Of course, most folks would never think to ask if a guy might change his name upon marriage. It’s just not done in this country — and once I learned why, I became more sure than ever that I would never be anyone but Andrea Grimes. Keep reading »
