My name is Martha. Believe it or not, this was a difficult burden to bear while growing up in the 1960s. Surrounded by a sea of girls named Debbie, Nancy, or Linda, I was often asked: “Were you named after your aunt?” “Were you named after your grandma?” “Why did your parents name you that?” Even, “Do you like your name?” Well, no, I did not. On top of that, I was smack dab in the middle of four sisters, all of whom were lucky enough to have what I perceived to be modern, lively-sounding names: Kathy, Julie, Susan, and Liz. My name, on the other hand, was different, not young and playful like a Tammy or a Jenny. Instead, it felt oldfashioned and stodgy.
To a child with an insecure, shy streak, crooked teeth, and a gangly body towering over the Marys in my class, a name like Martha was certainly not an asset. I took on the burden of my name and stayed quiet and in the background for the duration of my childhood.
I often asked my parents, “Why did you give me this name?” Even, “Did you like it?” My parents’ response was, of course, that they loved the name. Today, many people tell me they love my name. I do not.
Naturally, as I was growing up, I made a vow that I would give my daughter the most classic, beautiful name I could think of. A name she would treasure. And when I gave birth to my daughter 17 years ago, I did just that. I chose Christine.
Turns out I chose wrong.
Almost from the time she could express an opinion, Christine has complained about her name. She laments that she is the only one with that name in her school, leaving me to wonder, just when did the name Christine go out of fashion? She complains that people call her Christina, which she loathes. (I can relate; I am often called Marcia or Margaret, which I loathe.) She wants to know why her dad and I named her that, and in a voice that echoes my parents, I say, “Because we loved the name.” In fifth grade she switched schools and decided to go by Chris. The experiment failed: she hated the name. Junior high brought the name Christy. I kept my mouth shut even as I cringed – visions of an air-headed cheerleader clouded my thoughts. (I am certain there are many Christys out there with level heads and serious plans.)
I have heard of people who treasure their unique names. I envy their sprit, and I wish I had more of it. Turns out my daughter feels the same way. History repeating itself, indeed.
On June 23, 2007 Christine turned 15 and I turned 50. On this day, as on many others, she proclaimed, “I have never felt like a Christine.” Thinking that changing your name has got to be a whole lot easier than changing your personality, or gender, or even your nose, I suggested she change it. I told her to pick a name she felt proud to own and proud to say and go to court and change it.
And she did. On Jan. 2, 2008, Christine became Allison. And it fits her just fine.
The reaction was the most interesting part of this process. Some people applauded the action, cheering my bravery in making such a difficult decision. Others mistrusted the decision: why let a 15-year-old girl make such a big life-changing choice? Others wonder how I must feel. After all, she was rejecting the very gift I gave her at birth. And still others wondered, does a person have the right to shed his or her name just as one would shed an old winter coat?
To all this I say, this act was not brave, nor foolish, nor earth-shattering. If there is anything in this world that is bound up in a person’s identity, it is surely one’s name. We are our names indeed. We are called by our names dozens of times a day, and if the name doesn’t fit or doesn’t feel good, then we have the right to find something better. And if the little baby I first held in my arms 17 years ago, says thanks but no thanks to this particular moniker, that is just fine. It is her name, after all.
When my husband, John, first learned of Allison’s plans to change her name legally, he protested. How can she just reject the name she has carried all these years? I firmly told him that with the very classic, universally beloved name of John, he could never truly understand. I told him to trust me on this, and he did. As we stood in court that day, the judge looked John straight in the eye and asked, “Why are you requesting this?” And he said, “It seems to us that it can only serve to boost her self confidence if she can go by a name that she likes.” Turns out he did understand.
I love the name Christine, and because I loved this newborn baby, I gave her the gift of my favorite name. Now, 17 years later, I’m happy to give her an even better gift: a new name. One that she wears with comfort. She is now Allison. A name we can all love.
Martha Wegner is a free-lance writer living in St. Paul, Minn. with her husband and two children. ■
