When I let it slip to people that I sometimes regret taking my husband’s last name after we were married, a panicked look crosses their face. They’re expecting, I can only guess, a diatribe about a good-for-nothing bum of a husband. I’ll give you the good news now. We’re 12 years in and going strong.
It’s not the marriage I regret. It’s the name.
I never expected to be here. Twelve years ago, I was excited to dump my 10-letter mouthful of amaiden name for one that was half as long. I was ready to say goodbye to years of having to correct the spelling and the pronunciation of the very German name passed down through my father’s family for generations. Read more…
In South Florida, one man’s romantic gesture to his wife has turned into a legal battle with the DMV and a moment to reflect on traditional gender roles. Keep reading »
Each year on the first day of school, there were kids who came back as entirely new people. They’d correct the teacher during role call.
“Erin?” the teacher would ask, scanning the room.
“I’m Nikki now,” Erin would say, presumptively going by her middle name.
One girl changed her name so many times that by sixth grade, the only thing left to alter was the pronunciation of her name.
“I’m not Tabitha anymore, I am Tab-eye-tha now.”
There was something admirable about how brave these kids were to just proclaim themselves someone new. I didn’t think I would have the courage to do that. Like most kids, I didn’t love my name but I didn’t loathe it either. I just brooded about how unfair it was to have no control over it. Keep reading »