The Last Word on ‘What’s in a Name?’

Awhile ago, I was having one of those breezy conversations with a neighbor, a youngish father of four, as both of us were keeping an eye on our children at the park. Mostly we were talking about the neighborhood, about what the kids were up to and on from there.

Then somehow the talk rolled around to me, casually, lazily, but soon it shifted a little in tone.

What do I do with my time, exactly, my neighbor wanted to know, and who am I, really, and how can anyone be sure that I am actually married to my husband at all? Isn’t what I’m doing against the law?

You see, the conversation had hurtled recklessly toward surnames. My husband and I do not have one in common, and unless he is planning on changing his, I doubt that we ever will.

His name was given to him at birth; likewise, I picked up mine on my own big day. Neither of us has changed them since. (Ricky to Rick to Richard doesn’t count here.)

This is not a “So there!” proposition. It just is. A Klein is what I’ve always been, and I like that as it is. I wouldn’t expect my husband to adopt my name any more than I’d trade it away for his.

But it seems many people do not understand this, while others clearly disapprove. So be it.

I, for one, am glad to know that that my neighbor thinks me a little wild.

Still, if my experience is any guide, women who keep their own names after marriage are in for more scrutiny than those who chose a more conventional route. Some people just flat-out won’t accept it at all.

My mother took years to give up the ghost. A Girl Scout official, compiling a roster of parents in my daughter’s Daisy troop, put my last name in quotes then followed it with the “real” one: my husband’s, of course. And my grandfather’s wife, bless her heart, still insists on addressing her letters to me using my husband’s last name. Only she spells it wrong.

Then again, the degree of curiosity over a married woman’s name varies with the circles in which she roams. During my nine years of married life, I’ve lived in New York, where people couldn’t care less; in Spain and Mexico, where married women automatically keep their surnames (a combination of Mom’s and Dad’s), and now, in Orange County.

Orange County wins for the sheer volume of “I don’t get it” stares. Funny, this looks suggests, you look like a happily married wife with two kids. And I am.

Only over the years, this has become my secret, as is the marital status of anyone with a Mr., Dr., Capt. or any other honorific that does not involve marrying a man.

I don’t get annoyed anymore when strangers call me by my husband’s name--with phone solicitors I can actually have some fun--but I will usually correct them just the same. That is, if I care about them at all.

And if people then ask, which many do, “So should I call you Mrs. Klein or Ms?” I will usually opt for the later, depending on my mood. Mrs. Klein, after all, is my mother, and Ms., well, some people still can’t say that without a smirk. Presumptions about “our kind” abound.

We are thought to be uppity at best and bullying man-haters at worst. Many think we’ve gone to a whole lot of trouble for some sort of political stand.

“Isn’t this a hassle ?” a medical receptionist asked me the other day after I’d explained that my children, who have my husband’s surname, are covered under my insurance plan. (I am not big on hyphenated last names; life is cumbersome enough.)

Other people insinuate that when a woman keeps her own name, she must not love her husband very much.

My sister, younger than I by two years, says it never occurred to her to remain a Klein. She figured it would hurt her groom’s feelings.

One friend who kept her name when she married her first husband decided to change it for No. 2. She thought this would be a nice gesture, something that would somehow suggest that she was serious this time around.

Except my friend still has a mild identity crisis after seven years of marriage, having never quite followed through. She’ll go by her own name one day and her husband’s the next. Then she forgets who she is at the dentist or what the name is on her library card.

She’s decided she’s not quite comfortable with either name. Her husband, meantime, doesn’t care what she’s called. She is just Barbara at home.

The other day, my 5-year-old told me that it would be nice if everybody in our family had the same last name. She suggested that I switch mine, since I am the odd one out.

But I told her that I liked my name and that if she wanted to, she could change hers to mine, which, incidentally, I share with the two cats. She said no, she liked hers, too. She said asking her to change it was “no fair.”

I agreed. So we let it go.