I lost my name at age 18. That's when I married the first time and took my new husband's last name for my own. From then on, the name I had through childhood disappeared forever. Few of my friends these days even know what it was.
When I divorced, then remarried, I took my second husband's name for my own because I saw no reason to keep the last name of my former husband. So, once again, I became a woman without a name, at least a name that was my own.
Each name change there were papers to update, everything from driver's license to Social Security to legal records, such as mortgages, bank accounts and insurance policies. I was someone else yet again, which further diluted my real being.
It's not bad enough that I have no name, I can't even call my childhood surname my maiden name. I brought that up one time and feminists jumped all over me, saying that was not my maiden name but rather my family name. But it wasn't my family name. My maiden name was my father's surname, and my father deserted me when I was younger than four years old. Why would I want to use his name anyway? He wasn't my family.
The last name I really would like to use is that of my grandfather -- a solid German name carried by great-grandparents, uncles, male cousins, but not me. Besides, if I were to use it now it would look stupid. Sometimes I tell people my middle name is my last name. But that makes no sense either because it's obviously a middle name.
Our name is our identity. Everyone calls us by our names. Without them, we'd all be called Hey-You. When our names are taken away, we become nobodies.
Even though I was a byline reporter for a major California newspaper, I never thought that title represented me. It always was as if someone else had written the stories and had their name between the headline and the first word. I didn't exist. That byline wasn't my name. But it was. And it wasn't because I didn't and don't have a name any longer.
If you men out there think this is nothing, take away your last name and give yourself another one. Then you'll see how you identify with that name you've had since the day you were born. I don't have the name I had from day one.
Not long ago, my husband acquired a coat of arms and story about how and where his surname originated. He proudly displayed the framed print on our bedroom wall. Wasn't that special? For him, yes. For me, it meant nothing. It wasn't my name. It isn't my name. I don't have a name.
Anyone reading this may think I'm an embittered woman, sick and tired of men taking away our names. Not at all. I blame the women for allowing their names to be sucked into oblivion. Why would they do it? Why did I do it? Wanting to get along, I think. Don't mention it, don't stand up and keep your name (if that's the name you want to keep) because the romance may end or become contentious.
Besides, when I married the first time, only a few beatniks were keeping their names. When I married the second time, those were the days when women kept their maiden names and hyphenated them along with their newly married names. Beyond silly. No one knew what their names were. And if they had kids, I can't imagine the confusion.
It's too late for me to do much about my name. Everyone knows me by it now and I'll keep it. At the end, I hope someone will put just my first and middle names on the brass plaque along with my beginning and ending dates. Anything else will not be me.
