In early fall of 1983, I called my grandmother, who lived in a small farming community in central Iowa, with the happy news of my engagement. I was about to start law school, and my boyfriend and I had just finished a two-week trip, which for us was a glorious extravagance. Don had surprised me with a proposal while we were in St. Martin. Though I had always envisioned waiting until after law school graduation to tie the knot, I was giddy at the suggestion that we get married sooner.
My grandmother was thrilled for me. I explained the basic parameters of our upcoming nuptials: we would get married by a judge at home during spring break of my first year of law school; we would forgo a honeymoon due to academic demands; and, oh yes, I was not going to change my name.
There was silence at the other end of the line. My grandmother was not concerned about the lack of a wedding trip, and she could live without me getting married in a church if it was a legal marriage. But not taking my husband’s last name? That was unforgiveable. She chose her words carefully but expressed them firmly. “If you do not take your husband’s name, I will never speak to you again.” The conversation ended quickly.
I was saddened by her comment, but I instantly forgave her for it. She was in her early 90’s, and she was a product of a time when socioeconomic standing was tied to marital status. For reasons of prestige and identification, my grandmother was hurt by my pronouncement. But I knew she loved me, and I suspected that she would not carry out her threat. And she did not.
I kept my name when I married for reasons that were vaguely feminist. I liked my name, I identified with it, and it surrounded me with comfortable familiarity. I was not a chattel to be conveyed to my husband; I was my own person, imperfect but evolving. I disliked the idea that I had to sacrifice something to legally enter an equalitarian partnership.
After my children were born, a friend of mine suggested that I take my husband’s last name so that our kids would know we were married. I bristled, but laughed, at the idea that doing so would instill greater emotional security in our sons than having them watch their parents work diligently, cohesively, and lovingly from dawn until dusk every day of their lives. I declined to take her suggestion.
To this day, I am often referred to as Mrs. Schweet during sales calls. I take time to explain to the caller that referring to me in a way that demonstrates knowledge of my marital status is sexist. I am less patient to those who call and ask to speak to the head of the household; I relate that I am in a household where decision making is a shared responsibility. In other words, the person who has been charged with the task makes the choice.
But I am still learning, as well. This week I was asked by a medical assistant what pronouns I wished to be referred to. I was a little taken aback, but I quickly realized that wanting to be called and named in a way that resonates with your gender or non-binary identity is just as important as wanting to be called Ms. I paused and replied that she/her will do just fine. I also told her, with conviction and sincerity, that I appreciated her asking me that question.
We all have the right to be referred to in a way that reflects our individuality. Those who do not understand, like my sweet grandmother, will get there in time -- if we are gentle and patient with our promptings.