Thirty years ago, my maman gave a speech about why she was choosing to keep her last name—at her own wedding.
Standing in front of 150 of my father’s family and friends, she squared her shoulders, raised her glass, and spoke clearly about her desire to defy the patriarchy. A child of the Iranian revolution, my mother viewed her last name as more than a birthright. To her, it was a weapon; a mode of resistance she made sure to instill in me by hyphenating my own last name—hers first, my father’s second—to arm me against traditionalists if I were to one day get married or have children of my own.
Now, 28 years later, I’m set to get married in August and have had this very same conversation with my partner (albeit, without an audience). We actually opened up this dialogue years ago when we were first dating, and have continued to check in about where we’ve stood throughout our relationship. This open communication has helped us both feel seen, heard, and respected. After all, marriage is a legal partnership, but a name can mean so many different things to so many different people.
What’s in a name? As it turns out, a lot, or not much at all. For some, names can feel extremely personal. For others, they can feel irrelevant or mundane, something you were assigned at birth. Some might feel a great kinship with their family names, as well as a pressure to carry on their lineage. My fiancé and I are both firstborns, so we both manage this responsibility. Both of our names are derived from the jobs our families were once renowned for, one small thread in a larger tapestry of our inherited histories. His was a family of falconers; mine worked on the Silk Road, as well as in service to the king, or shah, of Iran. Our names hold an invisible weight, a tangible sense of duty.
But for children of immigrants, like me, a last name can hold valuable cultural ties. Growing up as a first-generation Middle Eastern American in New York City, I often felt that my identity was fragmented, fractured between two different worlds. My last name was unpronounceable to most of my peers, throwing off teachers at roll call. The spelling and foreignness intimidated outsiders, immediately marking me as “other.” After 9/11, that intimidation became tinged with fear. As a result, my community grew closer together as a defense mechanism, claiming our names with pride. In a way, my last name and I are trauma-bonded. We’ve survived so much together. Too much, some might say, for me to walk away now.
Of course, when you’re building a professional network or brand, a name can also feel like a hard-earned career milestone. When I was starting out as a freelance writer, I signed my first invoice for a measly $50, using my full name. A decade later, I used that same signature to sign my very first book deal. Years of hard work, dedication, emails, and rejection letters went into building out my backlist, ensuring my Google Search results, and putting a face to a name. Changing my last name now would mean more than starting over from square one—it would mean walking away from a legacy that I built from scratch.
Not to mention that, in an interracial relationship like mine, a last name can help create a new family identity. As a brown woman marrying a white man, I often think about the fact that, if I were to have children, their racial identity will diverge from mine—both a blessing (in that they likely won’t have the same coming-of-age experiences that were formative for me, or endure the same kind of assimilation anxiety) and a curse (a disconnect from their cultural heritage).
If we were to share one last name, that name would bond us together as a family. Conversely, if I were to keep my last name and give my children their father's, would it create a wedge between us? Or worse, if they don't look like me, would it cause biased and racially-charged confusion from teachers, or doctors, or peers, about my role in their life? Sharing a last name—especially a white-passing one—would just make life easier. For interracial couples, this is an unavoidable reality, and one I’ve considered heavily as I’ve started planning for my future, especially since it impacts so many more people than just me. It impacts generations of my family for years to come.
Of course, there’s also feminism to consider. The institution of marriage, along with the wedding industrial complex, has, for millennia, systemically undermined women’s independence and autocracy, with historical roots of paternal or marital ownership and imposition. But taking your partner’s last name doesn’t make you a “bad” feminist if you consider that the very definition of feminism is centered on the advocation of social, economic, and political equality of the sexes, rather than elevating the status of men or women above one another. Intersectionality takes race, class, gender, sexuality, ability, and more into account. If that is, in fact, true, then perhaps the most feminist approach to choosing a last name is to lead an open and honest conversation with your partner in which they listen to and respect your opinion. Maybe making a decision that works best for you, as an individual, can be a radical act in and of itself.
Ultimately, after much thought, I’m keeping my last name and my partner is keeping his. We both value our cultural and familial ties, and don’t believe that the decision will diminish our marriage or undermine our commitment to one another. If we have kids, they’ll have his last name—his feelings on the matter are ultimately stronger than mine, and I’m hesitant to give my children three hyphenated names (even I am not that cruel!). But their first names will be Farsi, a fair compromise which I hope will act as a tether to my—and their—cultural identity, my racial experience, and, well, me.
My maman, of course, is disappointed by this somewhat “traditional choice.” And while I do not plan to give a speech at my own wedding defending my decision, I did, however, voluntarily write this entire personal essay about my thought process—for Cosmopolitan, no less. Continuing to challenge the patriarchy, just like my foremothers before me.
