Reference Point
From time to time I will leave a comment on someone’s blog that turns into an essay. And I think this compulsion to wax garrulously is what inspired me to have my own blog in the first place. So anyway, I read a friend’s post that was essentially her way of commenting on ANOTHER post and so on ad nauseam like a free flowing meme. What follows is my response about names and whether to take your husband’s last one.
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My sister named me. Already having two younger bothers, she asked my mother for a baby sister and here I am christened with her request. I have to say I was never fond of my middle name (with apologies to my mother, its only redeeming quality is that it contains no proper vowels). And as I struggled with my relationship with my father and found feminism in college, I created a new last name for myself. I went so far as to inquire at the social security office how to make it legal, but never did. And when I asked my school about the consequences for obtaining transcripts with a name change, I was congratulated for getting married. When I corrected the assumption I was treated to the slack jawed and eye squinting judgment that sent me scuttling from the south to the open arms of the west coast where crazy people named “Rain” and “Summer” did that sort of thing every day. (Don’t get me started on the garden variety “Bubbas” and “Peggy-Sues” grown on the other side of the continental divide and to the right.)
But even here, in the lenient Pacific Northwest, I never persued the paper work part even though I adopted the alias in my professional life. And interestingly enough, the law requires you post the new name for a specified time on a special board where it is fun to read all the changes (mostly adopted children and trans-gendered people trying on a more fitting title). When I married, I hemmed and hawed about the decision to assume my husband’s last name. Oregon law is very generous with its tolerance for last name distribution so I had an opportunity to do what I wanted in terms of my identity. Which is what the agonizing is all about. I had already been reborn into a new identity and how would sharing my husbands name sit with this old school feminist? My fiancé did not protest or really have an opinion – he left me to my own choice. His ambivalence on the matter is probably what made it easier for me to take his name. Which is what I did, bumping the formerly changed last name to the middle .
Part of the decision is because we have children – the sole reason we tied on the ankle chains – and like to travel abroad. Upon your departure from this country and entering a new one, if your passport does not bear the same family name as your child’s, you must present paperwork that proves your relationship to the child. And if you are traveling without your parental partner, you must have their written consent to leave the country with your child. It becomes one more serrated piece of tape that becomes more comfortable to shed with the other airport hassles. Knowing we would be a family with a suitcase always packed, we decided to all bear the same luggage monogram.
And I purposefully gave my children middle names that could suffice as a last name if they so chose. In fact, my younger two have first names (in honor of my grandparents) that even sound a little clunky with their father’s last name tacked on and only flow melodically with their middle names inserted. I have over-thought this issue to the point of considering to not bestow middle names for my children in the event they would like to choose one themselves or add their potential future spouse's last name onto the already burdensome train of monikers with which I parceled them. However, when their name is called by the gym teacher imparting 11th grade American History, he will read their last name first so it will sound better. Or it will ring more harmoniously if we ever move to Southeast Asia where the family name always comes first.
(I warned you that I had a lot to say on the subject; I’m avoiding the gym.)
When I utter my full name or I hear it spoken, the ending always sounds awkward to me as if I am incognito or using a pseudonym. But I also like the anonymity it provides. My last name can be found among hundreds in an archaic phone book or on just about any NFL jersey. My husband even has a doubly named cousin because it can also be used as a first name (although what CAN’T these days), making a great onomatopoetic serial killer character on Law and Order - dun dun.
Because I have done so much research and analyzing on the topic, I have discovered some interesting anthropology. Iceland, for example, has a unique naming system based on the gender of your child. A surname is selected by affixing either “son” (son) or “dottir” (daughter) to the end of your given name, offering both a matronymic and patronymic system (although I am unclear whether of not this includes the mother’s given name, or just the father’s). Björk Gudmundsdóttir' is an example. This system is actually less confusing to me than the previously employed distribution of names by other Scandinavian countries that depended not only on your gender, but also your birth order and whether you would have your father’s, mother’s, grandfather’s or grandmother’s last name. And as I mentioned earlier, in Southeast Asia your last name comes first and in Indonesia most folks just go by one name (also if you are a celebrity of international renown) so it’s all a matter of cultural perspective.
Call me an anthroponymist and pass the salt. I have friends that have made all sorts of creative decisions when in came to the last name of their children. One friend kept her “maiden” or birth name and also gave it to her children, daughters. Another friend gave his children last names that were a combination of his and his partner’s last names (Smith + Jones = Smones). And yet another friend AND her husband hyphenated their last names and gave that to their children as well (which begs the often made point of continuingly hyphenated amalgams like Smith-Jones-Johnson-Nguyen). My point is our names are our identity and when it all comes out in the wash, who do you think you are? I have my political convictions, but I compromised to make nice with the international community and create some cohesion in my own little nuclear dynamic. My last name is merely a point of reference in relation to other people who may or may not live in my household and be found sitting next to me on an airplane. It’s all the same to me as long as you wear a nametag until I get it straight.
