Choosing a partner was easy; deciding on a last name was the hard part.


A MARRIED NAME

After our ceremony, Mick and I ran from the church out into the dusky October night. The groomsmen had decked out our truck with wicked looking plastic Halloween scythes that criss-crossed the back window with streamers, and they painted “I want to DO Micky, DO Micky—don’t break my heart, Micky” on the hood. As we waved goodbye, scooting ourselves across the vinyl seats, our marriage certificate slid to the floor. It wasn’t until we returned from our honeymoon that we found it, crumpled and smudged, somewhere between the gearshift and the passenger-side mat.

A couple weeks later, I finally brought it into the house. The date and the place were blurred, but the rest of the writing was legible. It was then that I realized that nowhere on the certificate did it say my married name. In fact, it had my “maiden” name, Anjie Seewer, written twice. The first time, the pastor predictably misspelled my name (“Anjie Sewer”). The second time, it fills a space requiring my full signature. I’d signed my name as I’d known it for 26 years: Anjanette M. Seewer.

As a kid, I used to watch the older girls in my church be transformed by the prospect of marriage and a new name. It seemed to start with the obligatory wedding shower.

The women who threw these showers had names like Gladys or Faye – and they typically had large breasts, wide hips, and tightly permed hair. They all dressed in what seemed to be a uniform of floral print blouses and polyester pants —and the showers they threw were inevitably kitchen or bath themes.

Only occasionally would the shower be personal, thrown by the slightly younger generation of older women in the church -- a bleach blonde Vicki with prominent roots or a scoop-necked Kathy with deep, deep cleavage. At these showers, I’d have the rare opportunity to watch the bride-to-be smile and blush as she held up pink slip nighties or red teddies, while I sat there secretly dreaming of a man’s touch on my bare skin, the drop of that thin satin strap off my shoulder, that unbearable meltdown into blissful surrender.

At the end of the shower, when she’d opened her last gift, we’d gather around the bride-to-be and tape together all the wrapping paper into a stiff and crinkly patchwork wedding dress, forever sealing in our minds the image of the soon-to-be Mrs. Larry Felder or Mrs. Jim Rogers -- the woman with the new name and purpose.

I don’t go by Mrs. Mick Reynolds, although, admittedly, some of my junk mail screams that (and it always seems to be the mail that comes with multiple sheets of address labels inside). But I do go by Anjie Reynolds, and in these ten years following my wedding, I’ve tried to come to terms with choosing that name.

I wanted to shirk the patriarchal implications of taking Mick’s last name (besides, Anjie Reynolds sounds so domestic and sturdy, like Debbie Reynolds or Reynolds Wrap), but I also like the concept of being unified in name, in belonging that way – especially when kids came into the picture.

Once, early on – before I’d officially decided upon a last name– I considered keeping “Seewer” as my last name. Not only had it been my name my entire life, (and an interesting one, at that – “No, that’s Seewer, sewer with an extra e”) I also liked the connection to my Swiss heritage. I found myself thinking “I’m proud to be a Seewer, it’s who I am…” when I realized “Seewer” is only half of my heritage, and that I hadn’t even considered my mother’s side. Maybe I should include her maiden name too. And that’s when it hit me. My mom’s maiden name is her father’s last name. And her mother’s maiden name is her mother’s father’s last name. And her mother’s mother’s maiden name is but another father’s last name. No matter where it goes, it’s some man’s name.

Sometimes it feels like I just gave up after that; however, if there’s anything I’m learning in these subsequent years about being a woman, a partner, and now, a mother, these choices aren’t always necessarily about giving up or giving in, they’re about giving it the best you’ve got.

Everyone I know has given it the best they’ve got, and many of them have chosen differently than I have: Nate broke the mold and took his wife’s last name, which has earned him the dubious nickname “The Missus”; Aimee Nelson kept her last name but her grandfather says she’ll always be Aimee Engalls to him now (and he’s her paternal grandfather!); Karen and Mark each kept their last names but when they had children, their daughter took her last name and their son took his, which they tell me can be a bit of a hassle; and of course, there’s the whole crowd of women who hyphenate or use their former-last-name-as-their-new-middle-name (which is what I did – although you’d never know it except to see my driver’s license). Everyone seems to attempt to merge as fairly — although not always necessarily as succinctly — as possible.

I know names are powerful. Why else would I be sweating this? Why else would it seem like choosing my children’s names took as much effort as birthing them? I mean, there’s something to be said about the rhythm and poetry and image a name evokes.

I’ve been daydreaming lately, though.

In the daydream, I see a young woman who’s just finished unwrapping all the gifts at her wedding shower (a bath-slash-personal shower, if you must know – I needed new stuff)…. Anyway, she stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by Gladyses and Fayes and Kathys and Vickis and Aimees and Karens. And they’ve all worked together to tape a wrapping paper wedding dress around her. Except the wrapping paper isn’t just wrapping paper – a smudged and crumpled marriage certificate is there too, and instead of tape, it’s all stuck together with these annoying address labels. And as she stands in the middle of the room, she allows that image of herself to settle in their minds for a moment, only to take great pleasure in loudly tearing that makeshift cover away, pulling it apart to reveal the rhythm and the poetry of the person inside – because, after all, like any document that could ever bear her name, maybe it’s all really just paper.