Blue Notes #11: Changing my name
The only thing that made me hesitate
Beloved Blueberries,
A question I’ve been getting a lot since I got engaged is, “Are you changing your name?” Let’s discuss this:
When I got my first tattoo, I decided to nod to the history of permanent-body-inking as a tribal marking by finding my “tribe” and then marking accordingly.
But alas, no tribe ever came along.
Nor could I scrounge for one in the past.
The truth is I’ve never belonged to any people, community, culture, or family that was cohesive enough to warrant a symbol. So I came up with a tattoo that actually symbolized my tribe-less-ness, a little youthful act of playful spite.
But I’ve never stopped wanting to belong—longing to belong—which is why I’ve always intended to change my name when I got married.
My mom doesn’t share my last name, my dad died, and I don’t have siblings. Besides extended family members who have always lived far away, I don’t share my last name with anybody. I’m just this little lonely Andrew Island, whose surname is constantly, erroneously pluralized.
I always wanted to be part of a normal family like the ones in commercials for station wagons. I would daydream about being in a house with other kids and a kitchen island and a golden retriever and a folksy sign with our last name on the front door, meaning “PEOPLE BELONG HERE.”
Instead, in a pathetic effort to be a normal family, I forced my mom to attend “Family Meetings” (even though we already talked together every night) and insisted on elaborate Christmas traditions that made no sense for a family of two.
Well, now I have a kitchen island in my apartment, and I’m getting married. That means, I’m finally going to get to have the same last name as other people who live in my house.
There’s just one little issue…