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The Shameless Hussies: read the novel online

Rumination:  In Name Only

To the bemusement of my friends and partner, I recently decided to change my name by deed poll.  My former surname belonged to my ex-husband and, ten years after our divorce, it seemed like the time had come to give it back.  So I undertook to acquire the third surname of my life.

          My friends were bemused because they had never known me by my maiden name, my partner likewise.  As an excitable 22 year-old in 1987, just arrived from the US, it seemed natural to take my husband’s name.  It was part of my commitment and my new life.  I relinquished my maiden name without a backward glance. That the marriage ended ten years later made me regret the decision, but at the time it felt right.

          For years after our divorce, I was inhibited by my perceived lack of options. The obvious answer was to return to my maiden name, but my father and I had become estranged and my connection with it dissolved.  Another argument against this was that I had become used to the freedom granted by my ex-husband’s Anglo surname of ‘Whitting’.  My father’s German Jewish name of ‘Bloch’, which I had never used in Britain, would put my heritage on full view.  I had enjoyed the luxury of choosing to whom I divulged my roots, as my looks allow me to ‘pass’, and was not sure that I wanted to lose this anonymity.  It had served me on more than one occasion when others around me were unaware of being in ‘mixed company.’

          Or I could choose something totally new and random—something exotic like Natasha Karamazov.  My mother’s family was Russo-Hungarian, so I might be able to carry it off.  However appealing, it seemed just too silly to divest myself of one meaningless name only to take another.  One friend, heavily in favour of the matriarchy, insisted that I should take my mother’s maiden name.  In principle, I would have been in favour, but aesthetic considerations ruled out becoming ‘Vanessa Gross.’ 

          Another ten years passed.  To everyone who mattered here—except me—my ex-husband’s name was my ‘real’ name.  Over time, this began to irritate me in a deeply personal, fundamental way.  Men, I ranted to my partner, don’t appreciate the importance of a name because it is theirs for life—unless they want to be Freddie Mercury, of course.  Increasingly, I began to feel as if those closest to me were unaware of my true nature, the person underneath this label which did not belong to me.  Was I to live my whole life attached to a man’s name, when we had only spent ten years of it together?  I imagined myself an old lady of 80, still using the name which had ceased to mean anything to me 50 years earlier. 

          It was absurd, but I put the thoughts aside and might never have done anything about it, were it not for a chance conversation with a new friend.  As a child, she had taken her stepfather’s name.  Why not, I thought, do the same?  Two years previously, my mother had married a wonderful man, and we have a great relationship.  Plus my stepfather was graced with a musical, romantic Cajun name that, combined with my first name, sounded just right for an aspiring novelist.  Thus, my choice was made partly for reasons of vanity.  I am comfortable with that.  A phone call to my stepfather produced a tearfully happy result.

          And so I embarked on one of the most convoluted processes in my experience.  For a woman to change her name through marriage is well-understood and accepted; all the official systems for doing this are designed to make it easy and efficient.  The marriage certificate is a golden pass through bureaucracy. A woman who changes her name for any other reason than to revert to her maiden name is automatically treated like a potential money-laundering terrorist.  By the time I had finished my battles with officialdom, I decided that it would have been much easier just to find someone to marry whose name I liked.

          The deed poll conversion itself was a model of simplicity:  complete a form online and pay £49, and a certificate arrives in the post.  I could have become anyone—Kermit LeFrog, Michelle Mouse—and for a brief moment Natasha Karamazov beckoned.  It seemed possible that, with such a name, my life might on its own become more glamorous and exotic to match.  The certificate came with a long list of people who needed to be informed, and I dutifully wrote the letters to everyone on the list.  In some cases, it was alarmingly easy to make the change.  I phoned my credit card company to see what proof they needed me to provide, and they simply took my new name over the phone and issued a replacement card.  Had I been a money-laundering terrorist, I would have been very happy indeed with the service.

          I had to buy a new British passport, which was annoying as it was only 6 months old.  New photographs, new application, etc.  Another £50, never mind.  This was nothing to the requirements to replace my US passport, since they do not recognise the deed poll as a legitimate document.  Instead, I was instructed to have a solicitor draw up a ‘statutory declaration’ (another £50), which I would have to swear in his presence.  The solicitor and I completed the ridiculous pantomime where I swore an oath identical to that printed on the deed poll certificate.  For this precious declaration, in which the US government put so much faith, no proof of identity was required – no birth certificate, no passport, nothing.  I thought that the solicitor would laugh out loud when informed that the envelope must be sealed, only to be opened by an embassy official. 

          It was necessary to present myself at the embassy with the document, in its sealed envelope, along with three other forms of identification using the new name (one of which could be a ‘foreign’ passport).  Another £50 fee, and it was done.

          My married friends informed me that they had been allowed to retain their maiden names on their bank accounts, alongside their new names.  The bank, having assured me that I could do the same for royalty purposes, found on the day that, actually, it was impossible.  I had a long, surreal conversation with a Scottish woman at the call centre:

          Me:  But I spoke to one of your colleagues only a few weeks ago, who assured me that it was possible.  We had a nice chat about authors and their pen names.  She was very helpful.

          Bank:  It is impossible because you are only one perrrrsson.  You cannot have more than one name on your cheque book.  You cannot have more than one name on your debit card.

          Me:  I understand that.  I don’t need it on the cheque book, or the card—

          Bank:  But you’re only one perrrssson. 

          Me:  I understand very well that I’m only one person.  But I can repeat for you, nearly verbatim, the conversation with your colleague—

          Bank:  But you’re only one perrssson.

          Me (sulkily):  If I was married, I could do it.

          Bank:  No, you could not, because you’re only one perrrssson.   

          I was very rude at this point.  It is my fervent hope that the conversation was recorded for training purposes. 

          The process is now complete.  I still receive emails and post addressed in my old name, and it is starting to look strange.  As if they are meant for someone else.  I feel different, like I’ve been given a fresh start, or put down a burden that I wasn’t aware of carrying.  Yes, I have taken yet another man’s name, which is no more ‘mine’ than either of the previous two.  But in a very real sense, I have moved on to a new phase of my life.  And that is good.

 Published in the Guardian newspaper http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,1724278,00.html

 Vanessa

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