After two and a half years of marriage, I finally took my husband’s surname. I suppose I had resisted it up until this point because I associated it with a loss of my identity. Like Beyonce, I, too, like to think of myself as an independent woman. And, after 34 years the name Annie Belinda Griffin began to grow on me a little.
The thought of relearning my own name seemed embarrassing as well. Several times in the base hospital I have sat in the waiting room, staring off into space as the nurse called for “Mrs. Boerm”, only to jump up on the fifth or sixth call, dumbfounded and proclaim, “Oh, that’s me!”
All along I have promised to change my name, but the timing just didn’t seem right. When we found out we would be moving from Alaska to South Carolina I had to apply for a new teaching certificate, and I didn’t want any confusion among the bureaucrats who approved my credentials. Then, I didn’t want it to affect my direct deposit, because the simpletons in payroll might be too perplexed by my new moniker to put all the pennies into the correct bank account.
Have I mentioned that it’s hard to pronounce? Of German origin, it should be pronounced “Burm”, like “germ” (as my dear friend Silvia pointed out), but Eric was raised pronouncing it “Borm.” Here in the South, it comes out as two syllables, like “Bor-em”—a great name for a teacher! Mrs. Bore ‘Em.
But now that we are planning on having some little Bore ‘Ems, I feel compelled to join the pack. So, it’s official! We’re all on the same team now, and I don’t feel any different. My identity is still intact. Like Shakespeare said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”