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WITH THIS NAME I THEE WED
(What some new-age newlyweds do in the name of love)
(c) David Astle
Imagine if Lachlan Murdoch morphed overnight into Lachlan O’Hare. Or Michael Zeta-Jones filled the bill, honouring his other half, Catherine. Meanwhile, upon the field of dreams, David Beckham wows the crowd as David Adams, after his wife Victoria.
Strange as it sounds, the scenario is gathering traction. Across Australia the modern groom is saying ‘I do’ when offered his wife’s surname. Think dozens, not hundreds, but the trend of taking the woman’s surname in marriage is catching on – so why? What stories lead to the decision? Before hearing from three such couples, let’s take a tour down history’s aisle.
For centuries of course, in a male-skewed world, the bride has been the mandatory bearer of the husband’s surname. Much like a chattel, the missus-to-be was forfeited as her father’s living property unto the custody of her new beau, the name-shift reflecting this transfer.
Such tradition hit a rock back in 1921, in the shape of Lucy Stone. An early advocate for women’s rights, Ms Stone refused to alter her name to Blackwell at the Boston altar – and all patriarchal hell broke loose. “A wife should no more take her husband’s name than he should hers,” asserted Lucy. “My name is my identity and must not be lost.”
Nowadays it’s the catch-all tradition that’s been lost. Come your wedding day, identity is up for grabs – for either gender. Women are free to choose to retain their own surname, or opt for double-barrelling. Often, for the sake of continuity, newly married wives will retain their birth name in the public domain, and defer to hubby’s handle via the children. (In groovier corners of America, fusing is taking hold, where Pamela Jones and Toby Barker, say, might mutate into the Jokers, or Barones.)
No less radical perhaps than the US case of Michael Buday back in 2005. When the ad exec, 29, popped the question to ER-nurse, Diana Bijon, 28, the question of names soon followed. Would Mr Buday become Mr Bijon, she asked? Far closer to his fiancee’s family, Buday was happy to embrace the idea. Until civil laws intervened.
Back then, California was among 44 American states with unequal name-change laws for newlyweds. To change his name a husband needed some $1000 AUD for court fees, petitions and public notices, compared to the bride’s default switch. In many ways the historic flipside of Lucy Stone, Buday spent two years pushing for gender equality, changing Californina bylaws as a result.
At home, the legal flexibility already exists, though not without a few hurdles. “People who are married in Australia,” explains Helen Trihas, the Victorian Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages, “can adopt their husband’s or wife’s name without applying for an official change of name with the Registry. “However,” Trihas continues, “when couples seek to update a driver’s licence or bank account, they are often asked to provide official documentation.”
Fittingly perhaps, the best name-change snapshot comes from the Australian Passports Office, where 538 Australian men have changed their married names since 2005 (versus over 71,000 women), though many of these re-branded fellas embody a new hyphen.
Updating documents was one minor battle for Michael Kingsland (né Munzinger), a 30-year-old PhD student from Canberra. Michael married Alice Kingsland, 27, last year. Alice, a public lawyer, recounts her husband’s challenge. “Michael rang the tax office to get his name changed, the guy said, ‘No, no, that can’t be right. Where are you from? In this country, and other western cultures, men don’t change their names – women do.’”
The couple had met a decade previously in Sweden, when both were living abroad as exchange students.
The Kingsland lineage wasn’t “a major reason” for Michael’s name change after the big day. Certainly Alice applied no pressure. Rather the German felt no deep attachment to Munzinger – “it’s a Swiss-tribe sort of name, a little bit wacko” – and sensed the relative comfort of Kingsland. “It’s really easy. You say to people it’s just like Queensland, but with a king instead.”
Yet spelling is a fraction of the whole. An expert in solar energy, Michael detects the decision’s radiant benefits in his marriage. “There’s something really positive about switching things around. Going against history, doing it the other way, we’re saying we are wanting to have one family.” Both sets of parents were relaxed and delighted by the couple’s option.
Alice echoes the sentiment. “A close friend just got engaged and she decided she’s going to take her husband’s name. You should have heard the reactions! Friends are shocked. We’re swinging towards the other way.”
“It’s only tradition,” says Ryan Walker, 30, also from Canberra. The IT teacher will shed his family name in December, marrying fellow teacher, Jenny Cather, 27. The prime reason is Brianna, Jenny’s daughter from a previous relationship.
“Brianna is five years old and she knows who she is – Brianna Cather. I didn’t want to be the new male in her life, coming in and forcing her to change her name, to become someone else in fact.”
Adds Jenny, “If I was going to change my name, then we’d change Brianna’s name so she’d have the same name as her Mum. If we went with the double-barrel, that would mean all three of us changing. Versus two of us changing [if we went with Walker] – or one of us.”
Me, laughs Ryan. “Telling Jenny we have to switch to Walker because that’s how it goes, that’s not a good enough argument.” Brianna nibbles a sandwich nearby. Ryan takes a fond glance. “After the wedding, Brianna knows I’m joining the family with Mummy, and I’m changing my name. And she’s excited.”
Mr and Mrs [TC] Walker – Ryan’s parents – blessed the decision. “As the middle son of three boys, there’s no shortage of Walkers,” says Ryan.
Honeymoon tickets booked, a meander in New Zealand, the couple faces one last obstacle: Ryan’s new signature. “I haven’t had time to practise a new one,” he confesses, unfazed. “My own signature doesn’t really look like Walker anyway, so maybe I need to add one slight squiggle.”
For Melbourne’s Catherine and Kristian, the back-story involves more autographs than signatures. During his 20s, Kristian earned his fame as Mean Lundin, a 120kg defender in Sweden’s national gridiron team. But Kris nursed a secret. Deep down he loathed his own surname.
“It’s complicated. My mother and father never married, and split when I was one. Three years later my mother married a guy called Lundin, not a good person. That’s all I want to say. Four years on, after the marriage broke up, I knew I didn’t want the Lundin name any more.”
But life and gridiron waylaid deed-poll plans. The gentle giant, now 39, never got round to the paperwork. “So I promised myself, maybe when I get married – unless my wife is Dick or something – I’ll take my wife’s name.”
Kristian met Catherine Flanagan in Melbourne in 1990, and kept in touch via cards and calls. Rapport turned into commitment in 1995, after three wild weeks in Durban. “There were no ifs or buts after that,” beams Catherine.
In 1997, opting to marry in Ireland where Catherine is from, the couple confronted the name situation. “We were lying on the bed,” remembers Catherine, 43, a designer. “I’d never really thought about the name thing. It was obviously more important for Kris.”
So important, he addressed the entire Flanagan clan at the Melbourne reception, asking his in-laws if he could take their name. “Some were really chuffed, and some weren’t that worried – a very Aussie approach!”
“There was a degree of pride,” recalls Cath. “Our family saw it as a compliment.” Mind you, at Kris’s wool-industry job [TC] back then, a few suspected the new groom to be living under the proverbial thumb. “Working in a very male environment,” says the proud Mr Flanagan, his accent a rich blend of dinkum and Norse, “I certainly get a few of those jokes. But being six-foot-five we sorted things out pretty quickly.”
SIDEBAR: WE DO, AND THEY DO OTHERWISE
Around the world, couples contrive all sorts of surname compromises. In Japan, if the wife is an only child, her name may be honoured in wedlock. While in China, the ‘ru zhui’ tradition obliges less wealthy grooms to preserve his bride’s surname as a safeguard for future heirs.
Traditional Persian culture allowed married women to keep their birth name, resorting to her husband’s surname for formal occasions. Akin to modern France, where the husband’s surname is often deemed a ‘usage name’, adopted as the wife sees fit.
Peru prefers tongue-twisters, sweeping up both names in marriage. Should Martha Ortiz Galvez tie the knot with Ricardo Perez Salinas, she may become Martha Ortiz Galvez Perez Salinas – opting to reorder the sequence within the tangled names of any eventual kids.
And last, perhaps a signal of society’s shifting tide, the player who first clicks the Marry option in Sims 2, the worldwide game of life, is the partner to carry their surname into posterity.
[Sunday Life, October, 2008]