For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of my wedding day. The obsession started back when I was about 4 years old and held monthly wedding ceremonies between two smitten Barbie dolls: Derek Jeter and Courtney, a friend of Barbie’s young sister Skipper. I laid down in the middle of my parents’ carpeted living room and applauded as Derek Jeter got to, once again, kiss his blushing bride.
So when it came time to plan my own wedding, I thought to myself, “been there, done that.” I found the dress, the venue, the band, the cake baker and most importantly, the groom.
I met my now-husband, Evan, during college, and I had a strong feeling early on that he’d be the man I’d marry. Maybe not in the middle of my parents’ carpeted living room, but I’m sure they’d vacuum if I asked nicely.
The one thing I wasn’t sure about was whether or not I would take my husband’s last name. My parents told me to do whatever made me happy, but I knew they secretly wanted me to keep my maiden name. Evan told me to do whatever made me happy, but I knew he secretly wanted me to take his name.
As a journalist, my maiden name had been shared widely across the internet and I felt strongly that I didn’t want to cause confusion among my tens of adoring readers by changing it after I got married.
I asked other engaged friends in heteronormative relationships what they were planning to do. Their choices were mixed, with some happily changing their last names on social media minutes after they said “I do” and others confidently keeping their maiden name. I didn’t hear anyone say that, like me, they were unsure.
Yes, changing my name felt patriarchal and old-fashioned. But keeping my maiden name forever? I assumed only hippies did that. I share a middle name with my mother, so I didn’t want to erase that with my maiden name in its place. Somewhere along the way, I decided to compromise. I’d keep my maiden name professionally but change my last name on all legal documents. Win-win, right?
I ripped the Band-Aid off and scurried to the nearest Social Security Administration office with my passport and marriage certificate in hand and was immediately told that I needed to go to a much farther, much busier office for name changes. Without thinking, I traveled 40 minutes to that office, sat down and waited. Over the course of two hours, my thoughts tumbled around like a lottery machine: “What are you doing here? This is a mistake.” Then, “Suck it up. All women go through this. You can too.”
Two weeks later, my new social security card arrived in the mail. I thought I’d feel relief, even excitement. But instead, seeing my new name made me sad. I stuffed the card in the depths of a file box until a week later, when I had to retrieve it for my DMV appointment. When they told me that they needed to take my old license, I kindly asked if I could keep it. Not for anything illegal, just as a memento. They declined and I cried the whole way home.
It felt like bits and pieces of me were being torn apart in industrial-strength government shredders. I realized that I wasn’t actually doing this for myself or for my husband — I was just doing what I thought I should do.
It felt like bits and pieces of me were being torn apart in industrial-strength government shredders. I realized thatI wasn’t actually doing this for myself or for my husband — I was just doing what I thought I should do. I proceeded to update my name everywhere it mattered and everywhere it didn’t — with banks and credit card companies and my Dairy Queen rewards app.
I just need to get used to it, I told myself. Exposure therapy and all.
But, even two years later, I never got used to it and the so-called compromise never quite worked. One day at work, Kelly Vaughan was reprimanded for not completing her HR compliance training in a timely fashion, even though Kelly Turiano had done so. When I checked into restaurants and was asked what name I’d booked under, I would pause and stammer through multiple possibilities — my old name? my new name? my husband’s name? — before they located my reservation.
“You can always change it back,” my husband would say.
“And sit in a cold, concrete government building for hours and spend hundreds of dollars to reclaim who I’ve always been? Pass.”
Here’s the thing: I never changed my passport. (Don’t tell Antony Blinken). I tossed around excuses like a baseball — it’s expensive; I don’t have a good photo; I’m not leaving the country anytime soon; it’s raining outside. But the truth was that I wanted to hold onto it, onto me, for as long as I could. There was something about not changing it that made the legal change feel less permanent, like I was leaving a door cracked open for a little air.
While planning a trip to Ireland, I learned that so long as the name on your plane ticket and passport match, it doesn’t matter who the social security administration thinks you are. I joked to my husband that he was traveling with an imposter.
“Shhh,” he said, as we approached the customs window.
I clenched my chest as the agent scanned my passport, afraid that I’d be flagged as a fraud. But a green check mark filled the screen and I squealed. What other crimes could I commit now? The possibilities seemed endless!
But when the same fear crept into my veins six weeks later on a trip to Aruba, I knew this was no way to live.
I told Evan that I wanted to permanently change my name back. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it.
“I don’t want to make a big deal about it,” I insisted.
Unfortunately, changing your name again — even when reverting to your maiden name — is a big deal. Without a divorce decree (no, thank you), I’d need to obtain a court order.
I’ll spare you the details, but four trips to civil court, one metal detector alarm (thanks, Birkenstocks), and $83 later, my petition had been granted — ironically, on our second wedding anniversary.
I felt a wink of relief followed by another daunting list of to-dos: back to the social security office, back to the DMV, back to the banks and credit card companies and Dairy Queen.
When I went to the DMV, I told the clerk that I needed to update my last name.
“Marriage?” She asked, eyeing my rings.
“Well, sort of,” I said.
“You have the marriage certificate?”
I nodded.
“OK, then this will be easy.”
I assured her it wouldn’t be.
