my driver's license at 16, my dad took me to the DMV. I had to take the driving portion of the test at the department, because I didn't have enough classroom driving hours. Our car horn wouldn't honk. A fuse had blown and our horn wouldn't honk and one couldn't take the test without a honking horn. My dad felt terrible. It was already a week past my 16th birthday, because I had to wait for my permit and it looked like I'd have to wait another day. Another day at age 16 is like, forever. Then my feisty Aunt Ethel happened to be driving by, stopped to tease me and just like that she lent me her car for my test.
I just kept looking at that license. It was warm when it came out of the printer. What was I thinking wearing that gray shirt? Gray, really? Five years of that picture. My hair took up most of it, because it was the eighties. Lisa D. Huber. There it was. She was a legal, licensed driver.
This past Saturday I sat in my car outside the DMV. The one in our town has long since closed. I sat outside and looked at my driver's license. I wasn't wearing gray; I've only had it since September when my address changed. Lisa D. Huber. I was at the DMV to change the Huber.
It's a huge decision for me to stop using that last name. I've lived 44 years with it. There is much debate about whether I should change it or not. I'm supposed to be a feminist and keep my identity. But is who I am as a woman tied to that last name? Am I not just trading one man's name for another man's name? Why should women be the ones who change? (My 6 year old nephew fought hard for me to keep Huber. It's his name too and that's how we know we are a family, he told me.)
Let me just say this, to me being a feminist gives me the right to decide what my life looks like, what my womanhood looks like. I decide what works for me. Conforming is still conforming, but I choose what to conform to. You telling me I shouldn't think this way as a woman is exactly, to me, the same as a man telling me how I should think. I made this decision thoughtfully and without pressure. Don't throw the easy reference about societal pressure, because ultimately I am responsible for what I do. I'm a woman. Let me make my decisions and if doesn't match what you believe, then don't YOU make the same decision. Let me also say that I think it's utter bullshit that I have to put this in here at all. Second-guessing and judging other women's decisions is the opposite of feminism to me.
The logistics alone of changing one's name is enough to make you not want to do it. The heart part was the hardest. Saying my new name, writing it, taking it as truly mine is an ongoing process. Because in doing that I stopped writing and saying my family of birth's name. There is a pause in my brain every time I hear or say Lisa Baker. That pause whispers Huber.
Here's what I believe to be true about myself... I am Lisa Dyan. Rena and David's daughter. Sister to Randy and Stacie. Aunt to their children. Niece to many. I am Lisa, a person unto myself. I am also now his wife and their step-mother. I am not just who I am to those around me; I am not just who I am to myself. I am all those things combined.
No one forced me to change. My husband didn't insist. He hoped I would. I didn't really entertain not changing it for long. Ultimately, to me what was right was what Landon said... it's how we know we are a family. I was born into the name Huber. I'm always, always Lisa Huber. However, I am also part my mom's family names, my father's mother's family names and back and back to the very beginning. I'm a sum of all those names. And now I add my married name to that.
I sat in my car, looking at that driver's license with a photo of me, my blood type, my height, my (goal) weight, my eye and hair color. My last name. All of those things (except the weight) can be used to describe me. All of those things (except the weight) would be fair and accurate and true. I am all of those things and so much more.
When the woman handed me my freshly minted license, it was still warm. Every thing was the same, except the last name. Yet it felt different. I can't return to Huber without a judge saying I can. The name I was born with now falls between parentheses or is proceeded by the words "she was a ..." or "her maiden name is...". But it is still entirely mine. It's the brown of my eyes, the curl at my temple, the stubbornness and the sense of humor.
Ultimately, my new name is a word added to my story. One that marks a life change. One that tells you where I am now. A word that shows my family has increased. A word that I never have to spell when I order pizza. It's the word my husband offered me and I accepted. It's the word that connects the dots between my family of birth and my family of choice. It ties us together. It is, simply and complexly, the very next word in my story.
P.S. May 1 was not lost on me. In the midst of my joy and honeymoon travel drama, I thought about how my babies would be 4. I counted my blessings and included their brief time inside me and the eternity they will spend in my heart. Happiness heals much, having someone to help you through the hard stuff helps, time makes it less sharp, but the silence where they should be remains. That date and those babies will never truly be lost to me.
