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5th October, What’s in a surname?

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So here’s the thing, M and I aren’t legally married. The big fat Bangladeshi wedding with the bloated guest list was just the Islamic ceremony. We still need to do our registry, which will be a whole occasion in itself. Julia thinks it’s odd and it made for an interesting conversation at work, but hey, after a lifetime of difference, why conform now?

We haven’t decided on a date yet for when we want to make it legal. This does have some advantages. While we’re not living in sin, sort of living outside of the law means I haven’t had to worry about the whole surname conundrum. You know, whether I keep my own surname or not. It’s just as well I didn’t have to add that decision to my mental load ahead of the wedding, it might have been the straw that broke the bridezilla’s back.

I know lots of feminists think they started the trend of keeping their own surname after marriage. It’s another thing the western world claims to have pioneered but sorry sisters, Bengali Muslims have been all over this for aeons.

Islamically speaking, I don’t have to change my surname. Some even say it’s better to keep the name you were born with. I’m no scholar (obviously) but I do think there is a certain something about holding onto the name you’ve worn your entire life. The good news is, M has actually encouraged me to keep the name I was born with.  

“To be honest with ya, I like your surname. It’s part of your identity so why not keep it?” he said during our last conversation. Followed by: “I was talking to the guys at work and we were debating which side up you put foil in the oven. I have no idea! Is it shiny or matte?”

This totally side-tracked me from the surname dilemma and sent me down a Google rabbit-hole in search of an answer. After scouring various blogs, forums and sites, we were still none the wiser. 

That’s what I love about being married. Having a husband allows me to have random chats I wouldn’t have with anybody else. As the days go by, M and I are more free, more open, and more honest with each other. We’ve lost the best face forward we reserved on our earlier dates. Our conversations run into the early hours of the morning and we find ourselves discussing some of life’s biggest unsolved mysteries. Like why are there still starving children in Africa when so much money is raised each year? Or, where do you keep jumpers that you’ve worn once, so they’re not fresh enough to put back in the drawer but not yet smelly enough to warrant a wash? It turns out M does the same thing I do, except he’s got a name for it: chair-drobe. Another hot topic of debate was whether not scrubbing your legs with a loofa and instead just letting the water run down your body counted as an adequate shower. 

As we’re still in the newlywed phase, I haven’t quite opened all my doors. I’ve withheld certain facts. I haven’t told him that my baby soft arms are the result of epilating (I wasn’t born with it) or that I used to only shave my legs up to the knee (though that had to change), or that in winter I can go two days without showering. I might keep those secrets to myself for now.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Surnames. 

M makes a good point, though us having different surnames does raise other questions. What surname do the kids get, mine or his? I know from experience that this doesn’t always work. Mum kept her own surname, like generations of Bengali women before her, and I had hers. Therefore, I constantly had questions from kids about whether my dad is my real dad. We were the lucky ones. My uncle Tariq and auntie Rukhsana decided it would make perfect sense to have Naila take her mum’s surname, while her brothers took their dad’s. Cue lots of confusion, where anyone that wasn’t Bengali (i.e. clued into our weirdness) assumed they were half-siblings. Or step siblings. Naila had a field day whingeing about that one. 

“Bloody Bengalis! They always have to make things awkward. My mum even thought that my brothers should have different surnames to each other, because she liked the surnames Khan and Miah. Why the hell would you give all your kids different surnames? Stupid bloody Bengalis. Weird, the lot of them.”

Naila added that complaint to her growing list of gripes about her community. When that list became too long, she decided to sod it all and marry a white guy.

I’m not sure what to do. My surname is my identity. One I’ve grown up with. One that’s frequently mispronounced at work. Do I really want to give this up just because I’ve got married? Then again, I don’t deny that I’ve been dying to get married and now that I have, I really want to brag about it. I want to flash a new surname. M’s is easier to pronounce, too, which is a bonus.

That’s the other thing, do I settle for Mrs or Ms? Despite wanting to be married, Mrs sounds a little bit fuddy-duddy and far too grown-up for my young self. But then does Ms sound like someone who isn’t married but doesn’t want to be pigeonholed as single? So many questions.

“Are you still dithering about your name?” Middle sis interrupts my internal debate. “Maybe cutting some salad will help you decide?”

Yes, I told her about my dilemma. A problem shared (with anyone who’ll listen) is a problem halved, and all that. 

“I’ll be down in a minute. You lot don’t help, either. You and big sis took your men’s surnames, while mum didn’t. Couldn’t you all have done the same thing so there’d be a universal example for me to follow?”

“Stop overthinking it!” Middle sis turns to leave, almost knocking my lamp over with her belly. “Wait till you have real things to think about. And hurry down! Don’t spend your last night up here worrying about something that doesn’t matter.”

She’s right. Screw this, it’s too confusing. I’ll keep hold of my surname for now and add it to the ‘things to finalise’ pile later. After all, we haven’t even decided when we’re going to get legally married, which gives me a bit more time to mull it over. 

Right now, I need to go downstairs for dinner. It’s my last sleep at mum’s. I best make the most of the chicken curry on tap while I can.