To Answer Your Question: Part 1

“Why is Your Last Name Different?”

We taught you your full name almost immediately. Names matter. They help supply your identity, for better or worse. Names can inspire hope or provoke insecurity. People change their birth names for all kinds of reasons, and that shit can speak volumes. As you study culture and history, as I hope you do throughout your life, you’ll notice how stripping someone of their given name is a common power move in societies.

There’s a reason for that: names matter.

I fought hard for your name. You know by now that your first name comes from your Uncle Mathias in Germany. He’s actually your dad’s uncle, and he took really good care of us when we were young and stationed in Baumholder. He lived a few hours away and was so hospitable to us anytime we visited his home. He never shies away from stumbling through his English while speaking to us, and you’ll also learn to sheepishly appreciate this effort from others because our country doesn’t promote learning multiple languages as much as other countries do.

Your dad was a little weary about giving the name to you. He didn’t want you to have to struggle with people butchering your name, which they do. But, I didn’t care. That name was meant for you and I felt it in every fiber when I was pregnant. You were Mathias well before your dad agreed to your name. Before I met your dad, one of my friends from college studied abroad in The Czech Republic. She became friends with a guy who modeled, and she showed me one of his commercials. Strangely enough, I had actually seen the commercial before and knew exactly who she was talking about. This friend of hers was beautiful. He was tall, thinner, and had very dark hair that was a little long and shaggy. He was so beautiful to me, almost in an angelic sense, and his name was Mathias. Naturally, this name went on my future baby list. I loved the idea of this person existing who would be beautiful and confident enough to model, smart enough to be an international scholar, and witty enough to make Paige laugh. When I married your dad and found out he had an uncle with the same name, I knew immediately that Mathias would be my son’s name one day. I never let it go. You have your dad’s middle name, James. I wanted your middle name to be my maiden name because I already felt robbed that you wouldn’t get to have my last name. But, I had won the battle of your first name, so I couldn’t be greedy.

Darling, from the jump, we have never actually had matching last names.

I tell you about your name and the passion I felt for it because this is how I also feel about my name. My first name comes from my grandmother, who got the name from her grandmother. When I was a child, I was annoyed that I couldn’t find “Nora” on a keychain or necklace. But, I grew to appreciate how rare it was. The more I allowed myself to truly hear the way my closest friends and truest lovers describe me, the more I realized that my not-so-common name was fitting for who I am.

Camellia is my middle name, and it honestly makes me feel beautiful. I don’t ever really hear this name either. Sometimes, I’ll buy a piece of art because it has a camellia in it, but no one really notices except me and your Nan. That’s really all the attention I ever give to it. I believe that this, in itself, is a lesson in humility that my mom taught me early on. Some things, like beauty, should co-exist with humility and grace so that you’re constantly dipping one toe into each pool so quickly that you forget which is which, and they all meld into one. It’s a balancing act you either learn on your own, or suffer through having it taught to you.

But, my last name is what roots me. My dad was cursed with two hyper-sensitive daughters who could not carry on his vowel-heavy last name, and that is something that I have mourned for him since I was old enough to understand the expectation of maiden names and married names in America. My dad has not gone back to his home in Samoa in over thirty years. That’s three decades of not smelling the ocean you breathed in from your childhood, three decades of not tasting your favorite foods the way they’re meant to be tasted, three decades of not feeling the heat that is so specific to the location that any other resemblance to it would recall old memories, and three decades of not regularly seeing people who look, speak, and think like you. How could I ever look my dad in the face and just erase that major piece of heritage by changing my last name? Most of me is American, southern even at times. While I’m proud of both of my parents, I always felt like an imposter when it came time to claim my Samoan side. I believed one of the best ways to respect that side of me was to clutch to that last name with everything I had in me, but to not disgrace it by putting on a show I had never seen. I wouldn’t fake an accent around other Samoans. I wouldn’t force myself to eat certain Samoan foods that I truly didn’t like. But, I would desperately try to hold on to that last name.

When your dad and I were engaged, we had a few rounds of discussing the last name situation. He was honestly very understanding and told me several times that I did not have to change my last name at all. But, he was not okay with our future children (you) having a combination last name. I knew then that your last name would be his. At the time, I didn’t know why this bothered me so badly. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it and be chalked up to another liberal college student who loves to make things complicated. But, now, I understand that I struggled with this because your dad and I were not meant to be together forever. His last name would not be permanent for me.

I don’t write this to tell you I believe women should keep their maiden names. I’m writing this to explain that your dad wasn’t the person for me that would deserve this kind of sacrifice from me. It is possible that there is someone in the world that loves me in a way that makes me want to take on his last name without a blink. This just wasn’t the case ten years ago when I was making a major life decision straight out of undergrad. I support people having the choice to do what they want. But, more than that, I support people taking the time to learn what it is they want in the first place.

When we got married, I was 22 and he was 26. I tell you the ages because I want you to constantly hear the differences in my mind frames between then at 22 and now at 32. The emotions I felt about my last name were the same back then as they are today. But, guess what? The younger me felt ashamed and selfish to feel this way. I didn’t have the words back then to construct my feelings into clear ideas. I didn’t have those tools yet because I was young. Stages of development are a real thing. Go read a book on it right now, actually, and save yourself some distress or counseling fees (that’s right, I’m not footing the bill for all the therapy I’m probably causing you).

So, I sucked it up and I told your dad that I would replace my last name with his. Days leading up to the wedding, we were busy taking care of things I had no idea had to be done before the actual wedding day: getting a marriage certificate, applying for a new passport, and updating my driver’s license. To change your name on anything, you have to start at the social security office. So, a few days before the wedding, I went with your dad and his mom to lunch. I remember we had errands to run that day. We were going to go to lunch, run to Target, and go to the social security office so I could do the name change. I could barely eat my lunch. I know how dramatic it sounds, but it felt like a last meal. We drove across the street to the social security office, and I remember I started crying and shaking a little bit. Your dad was very freaked out and didn’t know what to do with me. I didn’t even know what to do with myself, but I asked him if I could go in there alone. I didn’t want an audience (this is a common recurrence for me when I’m crying). He, again, was very understanding and gave me my space to go do this by myself. It wasn’t until I got inside and sat down at a clerk’s window that I decided that I couldn’t change my name entirely. I just couldn’t. I told the clerk that it would be a combination last name, Ioane Murphy. She gave me hell for it. She told me to use a hyphen, otherwise it would confuse people. She told me to reconsider it altogether because it would just give me problems in the long run with explaining it to others.

It blows my mind how much women are expected to constantly consider the emotions and mental capability of others. Don’t ever forget this as you take care to respect all the women in your life, or I’ll haunt you one day. Yes, you read that correctly.

So, for eight years, I was Nora Camellia Ioane Murphy. At no point in those eight years was I burdened with the task of explaining my combination last name. Never be overdramatic with your burdens, son. A burden is something you carry on you that eats away at your heart and robs you of your sleep. A burden changes your emotional response to others and kills your joy. Taking two seconds of your day to pronounce your name for someone who trips over it is an honor. Take those two seconds and educate others every time you get the chance because hearing the sounds of another culture for a quick moment is never a bad thing. Every time you say your name to them correctly, you are gently reminding them of worlds that exist outside of their own, and this kind of whisper reminds us how little we are in this enormous world. It’s humbling. Be cautious, though. Most people lean into an opportunity to grow. But, others let their ignorance turn into fear, so the reaction is not always kind. That’s okay. You’re not meant to win everyone over. But, you are expected to educate others when the time strikes.

Speak up for yourself so that speaking up for others will come more naturally to you later. Some people will tell you this is not your responsibility, but they’re wrong. Always do what’s right, even if there is no direct benefit for you. Even when no one is watching.

While I was married to your dad, I was legally Mrs. Ioane Murphy. Every official document and bank account had that combination last name. At work, it got shortened to Mrs. Murphy for my students. I didn’t mind that for the kids. What I did mind more was when the divorce rolled around and I knew I would have to reintroduce myself at work as just Ms. Ioane. The name change at that point felt so raw. You can get divorced and keep the information to yourself without having to engage in much confirmation of the matter with your colleagues. Best case scenario, they’ll realize the pictures are gone from your social media accounts and will put two and two together with whatever rumors have already spun. But, when you do the official name change, it feels like you’re holding up one of those huge advertising signs and you’re spinning it around and dancing in front of everyone. Unless, you’re a man.

I didn’t ask for anything from your dad in the divorce. Our most valuable asset was and is you, and splitting that time equally was our only concern. I remember sitting with the attorney’s clerk as she went down a list of things she wanted me to consider requesting in the decree: child support, half the house, specific furniture, etc. I remember looking up at her and saying, “I just want my name back.”

The section of the divorce decree that is long for most people is actually very short in ours. It details the only thing I wanted: a return to my maiden name. Had I not included this in the divorce decree, it would have later cost me around $500. That’s how much my name was worth that year. Probably accurate.

Going back to my maiden name felt like taking off someone else’s clothes that I had borrowed for too long and finally putting back on my favorite jeans that fit me perfectly.

Murphy is a very fitting last name for you. You will have no problem finding a pub in Ireland with your name on it, and I hope you enjoy a Guinness in that Killarney pub one day just like I did. Just because something wasn’t meant for me does not mean it can’t be hugely significant and right for you.

I’m not sure how old you’ll be when you read this. I try to be honest and direct with you on a level that is appropriate for your age. It is fucking exhausting making this attempt, but I never regret doing so. My plan is to update my methods as you get older and more capable of handling the details. You’re just asking me so many good questions this year at the ripe age of 5 that I can’t risk remembering to properly answer you later. What if there isn’t a later? I love you enough to show you how my brain was working then and now. I want you to learn not only from my actions but also from my motives, even as temporary and conflicting as they can be.

When you asked me earlier this month why my last name was different from yours, I told you it was because I just really, really liked the last name my dad gave me. It was the truth, but I only gave you a bit of the truth that was right for you to hear at 5. You still deserve to know the rest of that truth eventually.

And, despite your dad and I not being married anymore, I hope you really, really like the names we both gave you.