I could have written this post. I mean, almost. You see, I kept my name. No fuss, no bother. My name is my name, David's name is David's name, names do not a family make. (Hear that you guys? Names do not a family make. Seriously.) But for us, the difficulties arose when it came to kids in exactly the way that Rachel describes. I was in no way willing to be the odd one out when it came to family names, nor was I willing to effortlessly cede the name game to David, just by virtue of him being born male. And while we haven't reached the same compromise as Rachel and her husband, we have reached one. Given all this, I'm passionate about furthering the feminist conversation around names here at APW and providing a wealth of alternatives, as we all fight to make the choices that are right for us (without judgement). Let's discuss.
Long before Bruce and I talked about marriage, I knew I wanted to keep my last name. I mean, I’m definitely not so attached to my name that I’d stubbornly refuse to become Ms. Awesome, should the right man with the right name come along. But, for anything short of that, I was prepared to resist. The fact that Bruce’s last name is unpleasantly alliterative with my first name only sealed the deal. The decision was easier than pie, and I’m pretty good with pies.
I was also prepared, I thought, to let our children take his last name. We’d both agreed that we didn’t want to hyphenate, so, really, it was one or the other, and he has convention on his side. I’ll admit, I was a little miffed about the tacit assumption on his part that they would take his name, but whatever. He’s all for equality. He just hadn’t really given it any thought.
Then one day, for no particular reason, I freaked out. I was so sure I’d thought it through, and I was so sure that I was fine with my decision, but I suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that my future family would be the Russells, and I wouldn’t be a Russell.
To some people, this wouldn’t be a problem. I know that, rationally, a name doesn’t define a family. Of course it doesn’t. Still, I couldn’t shake my discomfort. Maybe it’s because I study English Literature, but my mind is fine-tuned to notice how apparently superficial qualities can have enormous symbolic weight. If my life were a novel, then my name would represent my exclusion.
The decision went from impossibly easy to just impossible.
My frustration built. Why do I have to go through an identity crisis? Why has Bruce never had to seriously entertain the possibility of sacrificing his last name? Even worse: why does a part of me feel guilty for asking him to consider it? Why do men have any more right to their last names than women? Well, they don’t. But, sometimes, it sure feels like it.
I expressed my frustration to Bruce, and he began to understand. We took another look at our options. The more we thought about it, the more we felt like we needed one name. For all of us.
