What’s in a name, they ask. A whole lot actually, especially if you are a woman.
From when you are born, there’s a lot of celebration around your first name. Some cultures have a naming ceremony where all the people who matter to your family will watch as your parents or grandparents hold your tiny, few-day-old body and whisper your name into your ears.
There’ll also be endless stories on how you were named – whether it was the traditional route of being named after grandparents, great uncles or aunts to honour the bloodline or an endearing backstory on how a “perfect name” was found for you.
There’s generally so much hullabaloo around your first name, but very little thought attached to the last name. In most cultures, we take on our father’s last name, uncontested.
Here’s where the gender role plays prominence. For a boy, it means taking the family name forward to the next generation, while for the girl, it means being a mere custodian until marriage. Then it’s simply crossed out to add the husband’s last name.
It’s tradition, they say.
But it's actually not. In some cultures, especially the Arab world, women don’t take their husband’s names and keep their maiden names. In Kerala, where I come from, there’s a Hindu community where the girls take their mother’s name as their surname.
But that’s a minority.
Many women accept the "tradition" blindly, with some even romanticising it. It ain’t love if you cannot take on your husband’s last name, some insist. I, however, was unwilling to buy into that kind of romance. It’s my name, after all.
In fact, when I was old enough to understand how the naming practice unfolded, I decided to make a few changes to mine. I tried to convince my father to add my mother’s name to mine.
“Am I not just as much her daughter as I am his?” I had asked.
There were several roadblocks ahead, my father pointed out, with the legal route described as tedious and lengthy, requiring plenty of paperwork and numerous trips to the local government offices if my name were to be changed. Then came the emotional explanation: my middle name May, a rather unusual one for an Indian, was an ode to my father’s late sister. (Why families name their children after their dead siblings, aunts and uncles – no disrespect to their souls – is a topic for another column.)
And, finally, the religious implications. My parents belong to different faiths, which meant the religions could become more pronounced and attract unwanted discourse every time my name was called.
But this was what appealed to me the most. Just the thought of having two last names of different faiths – Pillai representing my mother's Hindu heritage and Francis marking my father’s Christian side – would, in a strange way, accentuate my secular upbringing, I thought.
My first name Sneha, was picked by my maternal grandparents meaning love and is also an ode to a childhood friend of my mother’s who went on to become a celebrated educator in my home state.
In the end, my attempt at a name change was unsuccessful. And I eventually grew attached to it.
My middle name continues to be a great conversation starter. At school, it was also the target of silly jibes and harmless jokes, mostly among schoolteachers, who didn’t miss a chance to remind me of its most obvious reference to the month of the year. Some even took the liberty of correcting my name, much to the ire of my mother, who spent copious hours chasing staff at school awards functions to change it back to the original on the certificates. “It’s not Mary, it’s May. M-A-Y,” she would have to repeat often.
The jokes, the confusion and the chaos around my name made me love it even more. And also gave me a connection to my favourite superhero – Spider-Man (his aunt is named May).
And, being a journalist, my byline added more credibility and purpose to my life.
After marriage, custom demanded a change to keep up with the cliched Mr and Mrs tag.
But I decided to keep my name. No double-barrelled nonsense, thank you. I didn't face any objections, maybe because they knew I'd rebel.
My husband, Markos Abraham, cheered me on because he hugely valued the journalism career I had built and is also a hugely secure person.
But, when our son was born, the naming ritual cropped up again. Tradition again demanded that he take on his father’s last name.
But what about mine?
I insisted that my last name be included in his. Not double-barrelled, but my name.
It did raise plenty of eyebrows, but we didn’t let it ruin our efforts to set the foundation for future generations. So we named our son, Rafael (after the tennis legend Rafael Nadal, no less), with both our last names added to his.
I'm proud that I refused to succumb to the norms that my society scripted.
Some will call it rebellious or disrespectful, without seeing the irony in their argument. Because for years now, it's the women who have had to sacrifice and, unquestioningly, give men the power to determine "family names". I'm not asking men to take on their wife's last names (although it does sound appealing, I don't endorse reversing past damages as a way to set the wrongs right). It's about women just keeping their names untouched.
Today, 14 years later, I watch with pride as my son, Rafael Francis Abraham, understands the value both his parents add to his life, with our names being just one element of that truth. He even proclaims that he'll add my last name to his child's, whenever that happens. But that's a decision he'll have to make, keeping his wife's wishes in mind.
I hope more women embrace their individuality and refuse to let their names be erased in the name of love, or tradition.
Remember, it’s not just a name. It’s your identity.
