“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” No, Juliet, I disagree. The rolling R, the long, open O ready for surrender, the soft, sensual S. Names have power. In biblical myth, Adam’s first order of business included naming the flora, the fauna, and oh, yes, his wife (because of course, she was unable to name herself, as she was only an extension of him, formed from his rib). When meeting someone for the first time, inevitably, the first question goes like this: “What’s your name?”

My name, Rachel, means “ewe.” One would be hard pressed to find sheep like docility in my nature. In the bible, Rachel, the pretty one, has to share her husband with her sister. I love my sister, but I’m really not that good at sharing.

In many cultures, the family name passes from the patriarch to his children. I bore my father’s surname for eighteen years. Through those years, I beat my fists against the thick, high, impossible walls of his rule. As the head of the household, his position, his word, no matter how misguided or misogynistic, held the weight of law. And by nature of my last name, I was expected to heed it. Despite my desire to escape the confines of his tyranny, I carried with me always his brand, the mark of ownership, my name. By the forced gift of his surname, I belonged to him.

I married at eighteen. Desperate to shed the vestiges of my father’s power over me, I gladly replaced his brand with my new husband’s surname. I traded my father’s ownership for my husband’s. I remember sitting in the social security office, marriage license in hand, awaiting the calling of my number. Changing my name was a rite of passage, moving me forward from daughter to wife. At eighteen, I didn’t realize that by accepting my husband’s last name as my own, I was prolonging the legacy of women as property. Mrs. used to be spelled with an apostrophe S, meaning, “belongs to the Mr.” Not only did I become my husband’s property, but so did my children. He was the sun, and we were the planets revolving around him: Ancillary. Accessory. Attending. Appurtenant.

When our marriage ended, I replaced the “Mrs” with “Ms.” I didn’t want to revert to my maiden name, but I no longer belonged to my father, nor was I a maiden. Maintaining the name also allowed me to maintain ties to my children, those creatures who grew inside of me, were a part of me, had to be pulled from my insides, their connection to me cut with steel scissors. No father can claim this much ownership. And yet, the three of us still bore his name.

In the past, some couples hyphenated their surnames, allowing an equal partnership. The hyphenated names grew out of fashion–perhaps due to their cumbersomeness. Most forms don’t have enough space to take all of those letters. I know of some newlyweds who merge their last names, creating something new. I like that. Both parties are no longer their parents’, but each other’s. Why not identify accordingly?

Today, I want to throw off the bondage of husband, father, patriarch. I want to brand myself anew–my name, my choice, my power. I belong to myself. First, though, I need to discover who this woman without bondage is.

My advice for a surname? Throw off your shackles, and choose your own path. Find a name you love, that identifies the person you want to be. After all, a rose by any other name is NOT the same.

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Rachel writes poetry and essays while teaching high school English and theatre. She is currently working on her memoir.

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 Rachel’s poem “Prayer for Gage” can be found in Issue 4: Mothers.