I guess I never thought changing my name would be that big
of a deal. It seemed like a normal thing
to do when you got married. My mom had
done it, and most (though not all) of the moms I knew had done it. Besides, when you’re a girl, and you’re young,
you pick up things like writing your name with the last name of the boy you
like, or maybe Mrs. Boy’s Name, possibly surrounded by a lot of hearts. I did this.
By the time Jon and I actually started talking about getting
married, I didn’t really know anymore. I
chafed at the thought of being called “Mrs.” (Seriously, a title change based
solely on relationship status, for women only?)
I got actively grumpy at the thought of being called Mrs. Man’s
Name. And I wasn’t really sure what I wanted
to do with the rest of my name.
On the one hand, I was fine with who I was as Allie Rosner, I
had accomplished a lot as Allie Rosner, and I kind of wanted to stick it to the
patriarchy, also. On the other hand, I
wanted to have the same name as my potential future kids. Jon said he didn’t care what I did, and I
yelled at him that he didn’t understand that this was a real crisis of
identity. Jon also didn’t like the way
our names sounded hyphenated together, as much as I insisted he was saying it
wrong. He said to go ahead and call the
kids Rosner, but I think he was bluffing, and in the end even I was a little
too old-fashioned for that.
In the end we decided that I’d add Bass on the end and he’d
add Rosner in the middle, and I would try my best to go by all three names and
keep Rosner in the mix. It seemed like a
fair and adequately progressive compromise, and I was happy with it.
Since then, legally changing our names hasn’t been a hard
process for either one of us, but emotionally it’s actually affected me more
than I thought.
We came home from the DMV the other day with promises of new
licenses in the mail, and I was happy about getting that done. But later I started feeling a little
sad. BASS would be in big bold letters
at the top of my license now, and Rosner relegated to the middle, where no one
cares. I also had to drop my own middle
name, Gail, because I knew if Rosner was my second
middle name there was no way anyone would end up using it. I
couldn’t really put my finger on why I felt sad about all that, except that
it’s who I’ve been for 30 years, and it’s hard to give that up.
I started to think that maybe there’s something wrong with
me, that what I’m called is so wrapped up with the core of my identity. Shouldn’t my identity come from somewhere
else—from everywhere else? From my
baptism? From my relationships? From my accomplishments? From my vocation? I’m a
pastor, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a writer, a world traveler, a
vegetarian, a runner, a cookie baker and milkshake lover, a child of God. Those things haven’t changed.
But then again maybe I shouldn’t have ever thought that
changing my name wouldn’t be a big deal.
I should have remembered that I preach on stories where changing your
name is a really big deal. Jacob becomes
Israel, the one who wrestles with God.
Simon becomes Peter, the rock on which Jesus will build the church. Saul becomes Paul, a Hebrew name to a Roman
one, symbolizing a complete about-face in his life and ministry. For all these people, their names carry a deep
sense of identity.
Names were powerful back then. You weren’t even allowed to say the divine
name, because that’s how powerful it was.
Changing your name when you get married isn’t that powerful, but it is powerful.
Still.
And I should have remembered, too, how in fifth grade I
decided to go by Allie instead of Alison, and I spent a year fighting for my
teacher to agree to call me that. It was
important—if only because it was me deciding on a name for myself.
I should have remembered how when I started college I
thought maybe I’d go for a new start and go by Alison again, so at an admitted
students weekend I just let people call me Alison and didn’t correct them. It felt weird in a way that made me sure,
inside, that I was still Allie.
It’s not that I regret my decision. Sometimes I really like introducing myself by
my new name, even in scenarios where it sounds overly fancy to go by three
names. I like the reminder that I’m
married to Jon. I like the symbol of a
new identity in that way. I’m gaining
something in that, but I’m losing something too, and that is hard.
One of the hardest parts is in this kind of name-change limbo
period. I didn’t know where to look for
my name tag at the district clergy meeting a few weeks ago, under B or R. When I ordered a sandwich at the Cheese Shop
the other day, they asked for my first name and last initial. It didn’t matter
whether I said R or B as long as I retrieved my sandwich when I was
called. But I felt like I really didn’t
know. I have a flight booked for Monday,
as Alison Rosner, and I honestly don’t know what my ID is going to say by then,
so I can’t even call the airline and change it until I do. One group I’m part of didn’t get the memo
and still listed me in the directory as Rosner, I noticed today; I also played
around with some online database for our District Committee on Ministry trying
to make it display all three of my names, but when I got an email from the
committee chair, there I was on the roster as Bass, Alison.
When I’m called Bass, it’s this strange sensation of being
called a name that is very familiar to you, because it belongs to someone you
love, but that in any case still isn’t quite yours. But when I’m called Rosner, that feels wrong
too. In this limbo period, there are
times when I’m not sure I know what my name is at all. Depends who’s asking. It’s a pretty unsettling feeling to not know
what your own name is.
I know the limbo period will be over soon enough. I know it’s likely that eventually I’ll stop
trying to make sure everyone keeps Rosner in the mix and just go by Allie Bass,
because it’s easier. Right now I do not
like that thought. Because that’s not who I am.
But maybe I’ll see that I am still all those things I was,
that I am still the same person I was, no matter what it says on my driver’s
license. And it won’t seem like such a
big deal anymore. For now it is.
“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote. A lot, as it turns out.
