Keeping My Name

When I got married—the first time, in 1974—I didn’t change my name. Not taking the husband’s name was a newer concept then, and it wouldn’t actually have occurred to me if Tom (first husband Tom, not current husband Tom) hadn’t suggested it.

Tom’s family was supportive to a fault. Example: For our wedding present, his mother embroidered a set of sheets, with “His” and “Hers” nested amid the beautiful flowers and curlicues on the pillowcases. Some time after we opened her gift, she sought me out privately to say, in her quiet, unassuming way, “I hope the ‘his’ and ‘hers’ is OK on the pillowcases. I knew to stay away from ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.,’ but I wasn’t absolutely sure about ‘his’ and ‘hers.’ Tears filled my eyes as I hugged and reassured her. How thoughtful to be sensitive about such a thing. How hilarious to wonder about ‘his’ and ‘hers.’

My own mother, though 10 years younger than Tom’s, was less hip, or perhaps just less agreeable. She knew I was retaining “Wiseman,” but after the marriage her weekly letters, formerly just to me, now came to both of us, with the envelope addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Tom Goode.” The kind interpretation is that in 1974 Mom did not know how to address an envelope to a married couple with different surnames, since neither Emily Post nor Ann Landers had as yet directed the world on how to do it. That’s setting aside the possible interpretation that Mom was being passive-aggressive.

I didn’t want to confront her about it—afraid to learn she had disapproved of my decision, perhaps, but also, it must be said, because I avoided confrontation of any kind. (This was before therapy, obviously.) Tom, however, had no such misgivings and became increasingly irritated by the incorrectly addressed letters.

The turning point came when my birthday present arrived addressed to “Mrs. Tom Goode.” I didn’t like it but was willing to let it go (note the “before therapy” comment, above). Not so, Tom. He said if I didn’t talk to Mom he was going to send the present back, with a note that there was no such person as Mrs. Tom Goode. (I was just beginning to realize, in that alarming first-year-of-marriage way, that Tom was pretty bull-headed about some things.) His confronting my mother, or, more likely, accosting her, was out of the question, of course.

So, I had to tell my mother to address me by my actual name of Marian Wiseman. She complied immediately, and it was so easy! No questions asked, no resistance, no difficulties of any kind. If I had realized then how effective assertive behavior was, I might have avoided those years of therapy.

I was surprised recently to find out how uncommon it is, still, for women to keep their birth name at marriage: only 20% of women do so; another 10% or so use a hyphenated name or some other modified version of their birth name. But there is apparently a small trend toward maintaining one’s own name. Some commentators believe that the rise of social media is contributing to this trend, as women face inconveniences in changing online accounts or realize that their Facebook or Linked-In histories and identities are lost if they create an identity under a new name.

For me, I have never once regretted my decision to keep my own name when I married in 1974, or when I married again in 2000, for that matter. Ah, one name. Permanently.

I would love to hear your views on this issue, whether you are married or not, or female or not. 

The Big Wheel

After Rachel was born, Mom and Dad visited every Tuesday afternoon. They came to our house in Lansing after tending to Grandma Myrtie in Grand Ledge—buying groceries and taking her to the doctor or the bank. They brought us vegetables from their garden, and often a rhubarb pie, sometimes peach, and when Tom came home we all had supper together. It was a nice routine.

On those Tuesdays Mom often presented me with something she had bought at a garage sale. The quilted bedspread I later dyed purple. A pressure cooker. The wind-up swing for baby Rachel. A nylon winter jacket—navy, with an orange and yellow striped collar. Mom paid 50¢ for it, and as things turned out, it was my only winter jacket for the next 10 years.

Rachel was a toddler when Mom brought us a Big Wheel. It wasn’t an expensive brand-name Big Wheel, but a somewhat flimsy imitation. And something was out of kilter in the front wheel—it didn’t steer very well and it wouldn’t go very fast.

I was a regular at garage sales myself, as Tom's book scout. One day I found a brand-name Big Wheel, bright red and yellow, sturdy, and in excellent condition. I thought the $4 price was high, but new Big Wheels were $28, and the one from Mom just wasn't satisfactory. I paid the $4 and took it home. What a difference! Rachel pedaled it furiously down the sidewalk, steering it easily into the Thompson’s driveway.

Next Monday I placed the faux Big Wheel at the curb to be picked up with the other trash. Midmorning, the doorbell interrupted my editing. At the front door stood an African American man—early thirties, I’d say—about my age. Nice looking. Wearing a suit. His car stood at the curb.

“I noticed the Big Wheel out front with the trash, and I wondered if it would be all right if I took it. I know some kids who would like to have it.”

I was embarrassed. He thought I could afford to throw out Big Wheels. I lived in a nice house on a tree-lined street. I was white. He thought I was one of the “have’s,” discarding Big Wheels right and left. How could he know I wore a winter jacket that cost 50¢?

“Oh, well, sure. That’s fine.” Words came tumbling out. Gushing out. “I wouldn't really be throwing it out, but it’s got a bad wheel. It works, but not very well. And I bought a better one. At a garage sale, I mean, not a new one. That one out there was from a garage sale, too, actually. My mother bought it for my daughter.” I was talking faster and faster. “But the new one I bought is better. I mean, not new, but newer than that one. Not broken, I mean. At a garage sale. It was just $4. That one out front does work, though. But it sort of steers funny. I wouldn't even be throwing it out but I found that other one, and there was no need to have two.” I took a breath. “You're more than welcome to take it.”

He thanked me and left.

I closed the door and watched from the window as he put the toy in the trunk of his car. I burst into tears. I lived in a nice house on a tree-lined street, and there were little kids who had nothing, and he was willing to stop and ask if he could take my trash. And I was white and he was black. Was this scene much different from the ones—how did I know them, from movies? from books?—in which the black man comes—obsequious, to the back door—and asks if there is some work he could do for a meal, and the white woman prepares a plate of food and gives it to him, feeling smug and pleased with her generosity? Had anything in changed? Would it ever change?

I did not feel smug, and I wept. I wept to think that I had become a “have.” I wept for myself, and for that man, and for those little children who would ride the broken Big Wheel.