Changing My Name
The thing that has surprised me most about marriage so far is that everyone assumes that I’m changing my name. Even in this day and age. Even living in the fairly liberal city of Los Angeles. Cards were addressed to us as Mr. and Mrs., I received a monogrammed robe with my new monogram, someone even sent us a large metal front of the house sign customized with my husband’s last name.
It’s not that I’ve never thought about changing my last name. I have. But it’s a form of rebirth I don’t think I welcome. I can’t imagine my husband changing his last name. We’ve discussed it, but he has the same hesitations I do - his name is his brand, and deliberately or not, he has spent his life cultivating his brand, just as I have spent my life cultivating mine.
I’ve been surprised to see my feminist friends change their last names. My doctor friend, my hedge fund friend, my lawyer friend. I understand that it’s a polite way of telling the outside world that you’re married. But why is the outside world entitled to that etiquette? Perhaps taking your husband’s last name is romantic the way wedding rings are romantic. But my husband and I both wear wedding rings.
The name thing might sit more easily with me if it wasn’t so normative for heterosexual couples. I bet my gay married friends with different last names don’t receive cards addressed to Mr. and Mr. Only One of Their Last Names. I wasn’t expecting so many people to change my last name for me. It serves as a reminder that even in our “post-feminist” society, husbands are still shruggingly thought of as heads of the house.
