Woman with her head placed on a pedestal. Nails pierce her skin as she cries

For centuries, men have projected their inner image of femininity, raising it to a consciousness that left women who accepted the projection separated from their own reality. -Marion Woodman

When I was a young bride entering a marriage, I let myself entertain the idea of keeping my maiden name instead of taking my soon-to-be husband’s. As I played this game, I knew somewhere deep inside that I would ultimately take my husband’s name. Wasn’t that the goal for us Gen-X girls, after all? Weren’t all those dreamy signatures mashing our name with our current love interest on our Trapper folders training for this very moment? In the early 90s, the idea of a woman keeping her own name wasn’t so much scandalous as it was unusual, but the daring of it thrilled me. And, the idea of stirring up a little trouble while vacillating which to choose was too good to pass up. 

As a divorced, second-wave feminist, my mom was irrevocably on the side of female. She would openly cheer when we passed a female road worker or drove by a female truck driver. Once, she threw a whole-ass typewriter at her male boss when he made an inappropriate gesture toward her. There would be no Mad Men behavior in her life. But her energy, so aggressively pro-female, resonated with me as masculine energy. Growing up, I didn’t realize how my reaction to her energies forced me to bury much of my own feminine pride and identity somewhere deep in my shadow.

The more she emulated what she believed an independent female should be, the more I searched for a typical masculine anchor. Her “weird” feminism pushed me toward “normal” societal expectations.

Some time before the wedding, I told my dad my delicious idea of keeping my name. Instead of playing along, he scoffed and said, “What’s it matter? You can keep your daddy’s name or take your husband’s.” For him, there was no choice. Even as all the air left my lungs, I acted as if what he said was perfectly logical. Of course, I knew I would stuff my name games into the place I stored all my crazy dreams, but my father’s words stuck in my throat for decades and affected nearly every decision I made thereafter.

Woman searching the woods in the dark holding a small lantern

From that point on, my identity was obliterated. Who was I if I didn’t have my own name? What could my personal accomplishments matter if they are merely garnishes on the plates of a patriarchal meal? With my dad’s throwaway words, my familial anchor had been raised, and my place in the world was set adrift with the tides.

Fast forward to grad school some twenty-five years later. One of my professors warned us that if we were pursuing our PhD because we were proving something to someone else, we should stop at the masters level. She argued that the work was too difficult and too expensive to complete for such an empty goal. Well. Her words came at me like an arrow aimed straight for my old wound that could never quite scar over.

Was I doing all this work to show the men in my life I deserved to be credited for adding to the name’s reputation? Would having “PhD” after my name finally prove I was worthy to be of equal ownership to a name I was given? By then, I’d remarried and had a new last name. At the end of the day, anything I accomplished would be given to it, and my dad’s words made sure I would feel obligated to surrender ownership to the greater family reputation.

According to my world view, that was the bargain I’d struck, and I was bound to keep it.

Now, I am nearly done with my dissertation and am hoping to defend it early next year. I am learning to overcome my imposter’s syndrome and have been participating in weekly live chats about mythology and feminism. My writing is now represented by an amazing literary agent who I just love. My work is heading into the world, and it got me thinking about identity. How will the world know me? Not me the PhD student, or me the teacher, or me the wife and mother. Me.

As Juliet ponders, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Isn’t she asking the same question? Isn’t this the question most women struggle with? Who are we if we cannot fully claim our own name.

As I wrestled with my name conundrum, I played around with several choices. Then, I checked in with my body to see where I was feeling this struggle. I asked, “What if I reclaimed my birth name, the one given to me when I was a clean slate of possibility?” Just calling it my birth name and not my maiden name removed some of the implications society placed upon it, and I could feel my wound start to heal.

I turned my question into a statement. I said, “I reclaim the name given to me at birth.” Then the most interesting thing happened.

Before Buddha was born, his mother dreamed a large, white elephant offered her a lotus flower and then entered her body through her right side. Ten months later, a tree lowered its branch to support her, and the baby who was to become Buddha emerged from her side. Through a mythological lens, this is a virgin birth, one that happens at the level of the heart chakra, a place of connection, compassion, and joy.

As I whispered my claim, I felt an inviting warmth in, you guessed it, my right side just under my ribs. This reclamation was my own rebirth. My Becoming. It feels good to finally belong to myself.

I’d love to hear about your own journeys having to deal with female name and identity. Please comment below or email me to discuss further.

With Love,
Deb

Frieda Kahlo's The Broken Column

"In the turmoil of our time, we are being called to a new order of reality."

-Marion Woodman

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