Surnames for women have, to my mind, always been problematic. As a child, it was already in my consciousness that one day my surname might be different. This caused some uncertainty. For example, once I had a savings account I decided I needed a signature of my own. So I invented one and practised it – but with always the proviso at the back of my mind that I might have to change it one day if, or when, I got married[1]. Surnames for women are only borrowed, never owned. First, you have the surname of your father and then, on marriage you assume the surname of your husband. So, where are you in all this? A conduit for the continuity of the male lineage, never a person in your own right with a title to confer to future generations.
So, I decided that on no account was I going to change my surname. It was my name (albeit that of my father’s) and, while not the most exotic sounding name (‘Jackson’), it was mine. It was a matter of principle.
Then, in my 20s, friends starting getting married – and all changed their names immediately to their husbands! Why? Did they not feel a sense of betrayal to the principle, the cause? Apparently not (unless in a situation like my Pakistani friend, where cousin marriages are common, who already shared the same surname as her future husband – problem solved!)
For my son (whose father I was never married to), I opted for a double barrelled surname with both father’s and mother’s. This worked well in his case as they went well together. Actually, it never occurred to me that this might not be my choice – the UK, in its typical liberal muddling-through kind of way, has no prescriptions about changes of names or what you should call yourself. It’s up to you, albeit heavily influenced by tradition and convention. For my son’s first name, I chose ‘Ewan’ – to bring back my mother’s maiden name of ‘Ewen’, now lost as there was only her and one sister. I realise the spelling of ‘Ewan’ is not quite the same – but therein lies a tale that perhaps is best not told in this space.
My son’s middle name (and his father’s first name) comes from the Northumberland tradition of turning the grandmother’s maiden name into the first name of the grandson – which seems an interesting adaptation to keeping the matriarchal lineage alive [albeit in my son’s father’s case he was further named after an uncle who died during WW2).
Using a double barrelled surname for my son seems to work quite well - for example, in travelling abroad. Coming back to the UK this summer after a trip to abroad, I checked through immigration with my son. I was asked what my relationship was with my son: of course I said he was my son. This was unproblematic as he had my surname as half of his surname – a more problematic question if my surname was completely different to his.
This reflection on surnames was actually prompted a while back, on reading a ruling from the Mumbai High Court in 2012. The Times of India reported that women can now retain their maiden name after marriage[2]. Prior to the amendment, it seems, the court would not accept divorce, or related applications, from women unless they bore their husband’s surname. After the ruling, however, a woman can file for divorce in her maiden surname, married surname or any other name she may have adopted.
This follows a French ruling in 2003 that allowed parents to give their children the father’s surname, the mother’s surname or the surnames of both parents in whatever order they chose. This was, unfortunately too late for the De-Ram-Berou children as the ECHR decided it could not be applied retrospectively and was not upheld in that court[3].
Another 2013 ECHR judgement ruled that the impossibility of married women to use their maiden name in Turkey did amount to a violation of Article 8 (right to privacy and family life) in conjunction with Article 14 (prohibition of discrimination). They ruled that the difference in treatment between men and women (men could keep their surnames) amounted to discrimination and had no objective and reasonable justification [3]
This is a welcome advancement from the normal cultural practice of adopting the husband’s surname – or indeed, on marriage, often in India, of adopting a completely new name, both first name and surname, presumably to signify the re-born status of the newly married woman, fully integrated into her new family.
But in another – closely associated part of Europe – the opposite exists. My Serbian friend, on marrying her Peruvian husband, followed the Spanish tradition. This is where the woman keeps her own surname, because she is not of his own genetic family. So, for example –hypothetically – if I were to marry Susen, I would be known as Sue Jackson de Sarkar, not as Sue Sarkar as I would be in the UK. To my mind, that’s slightly more female friendly – although there is still a sense of ownership involved – that you are ‘of’ someone. I believe the tendency now is more towards both men and women in Spanish speaking countries having 2 surnames – one from their father and one from their mother, and neither party changing their names on marriage.
Perhaps, though, we should not be so rigid about holding on to our given names. In my involvement with the Triratna Buddhists (formerly the FWBO) in my 20s – on ordination, people were given a Buddhist name (ie. Pali name – from the language spoken by the Buddha at that time, closely associated with Sanskrit). From that moment on, they had to be addressed by their Buddhist name, not their former first name. I really did my best to go along with this but, I must confess, at times, it just felt weird. It was perhaps exacerbated by (mainly) white British people suddenly adopting a Pali / Indian name – Dayasri, Punyavati, Srimati, Gunabhadri, Suryagupta, Dhammachandra, Prajnagupta and so on. My mother refused point blank to refer to an old school friend of mine – Garry – as ‘Dhammavijaya’ once he was ordained. I briefly tried to reason with her, before giving up. So now, I refer to him as ‘Garry’ with her and ‘Dhammavijaya’ with everyone else. Just makes life easier.
Still, the confusion this name changing causes continues even now, on contacting old friends and acquaintances from my Triratna / FWBO days. Not only have they adopted Pali names on ordination, but then quite a few have married as well and changed their surnames to their husband’s. So, with both first name and surname changed, it becomes virtually impossible to identify the person you once knew.
Should names evolve, as we evolve and mature throughout life? Why do we necessarily cling to a given name at birth by own parents, when it might not reflect who we truly are, the core of our being?
I remember going to the funeral in Birmingham of the brother of a (Buddhist) friend of mine. She had changed her name on ordination, and always referred to her brother as ‘Anthony’. Sadly, her brother died at a relatively young age and I attended the funeral in Birmingham. Imagine my bewilderment then when I attended his funeral and they kept referring to him as ‘Sidney’. I thought I was at the wrong funeral. But, on questioning my friend afterwards, she said yes, Sidney was his name but she always preferred to call him by his middle name Anthony. For her, names were fluid, contingent on the times and on the occasion. In fact, when she came over to the UK from the Caribbean as a child, she had mulled over what surname to use. Her father had died, so she decided to use her grandmother’s surname on her passport.
So, maybe names are more fluid than I have been led to believe? Yes, I was called Susan Jackson at birth – but that was before either of my parents had any idea who I might turn out to be, or what my personality was. Should we all have contingent surnames? And first names? How many times should we be able to change our names? And decided by who? An opportunity or a curse?
[1] I am still using the same signature today
[2] Times of India 26/02/2012
[3] Leventoğlu Abdulkadiroğlu v.Turkey - ECHR 160 (2013)
[3] European Court of Human Rights – ECHR 267 (2013). 19.09.2013.
No comments:
Post a Comment