"That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." --Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

I have carried my husband’s name longer than I carried my father’s.

I never thought I would marry. As a girl, when I envisioned my life as an adult, it included an endless stream of patients and acres of dogs. I don’t remember dreams of wedding dresses, and children were certainly never part of the picture. I don’t remember ever putting my name before a boy’s and imagining what life with him would be like. That’s not to say I didn’t dream of boys. As a matter of fact, I had a weak spot for gingers. I had bigger things in mind, though, like saving the world. Maybe part of me didn’t believe anyone would want to join me in my endeavors.

When I did find someone who was willing to follow me down that path, I told him how I’d never imagined changing my name, so he offered to change his. My father, in typical Jack O’Quinn fashion, said, “If you’re going to marry that boy, you’re going to take his name.” So I did. I was proud to do so, even. Having found my partner in crime, all that mattered to me was that he and I went along together, no matter the name.

I still feel that way.

But now, almost twenty-five years later, I understand why all those girls at university imagined themselves hyphenated. Harvey-Burdell. Wexler-McGill. Graves-Whitaker. Every name seemed like such a mouth full. They seemed forced and maybe even a little convoluted. To me, they represented a part of feminism I didn’t want to be associated with, one that cast away too much of tradition, one that was too vocal to be heard in the South, that I felt made it harder for a female to be taken seriously.

At forty-six, though, I understand in a way that maybe even those young women at university didn’t that words have power. Names have power, if no where other than in our own minds. I have been my father’s daughter. I have been my husband’s wife. I have been myself. I have lived a life to please the O’Quinns and a life to please the Adamses. Now, though, I am working hard to live a life that pleases… me. Here lately, I wonder who I would have been, who I would be, if I could have named myself. To some degree, I have chosen my own name with this pen name. I had trouble, though, choosing it, because I wanted to reflect the many facets of who I am. I wanted a piece of my mother’s family and a piece of my father’s and a piece that was uniquely my own. That quickly became wordy, though, and I stuck with the name that sounded best to my heart and to my ear.

I know I’m rambling here, but I’ve been thinking a little about how we, as women, spent centuries as chattel and how our names are a reflection of that history. I’ve been thinking about how I was proud to carry my father’s name, and I miss it though I am proud to have my husband’s. And I’ve been thinking how lovely it would be to be bestowed with or be able to choose a name reflective of who we are at important points in our lives, a name to be added to the string of who we have been. Our names would reflect the family from whom we came, the family we chose, and who we had been at our hearts. By the time we die, our name would be a story to tell to the generations.

Perhaps it would change nothing in the grand scheme of things except maybe a little bit of our hearts, the hearts we must own for ourselves before we can give them to another.

I am Estora Hayes O’Quinn Adams, Seeker of Knowledge, Protector of Hearts, Carrier of Light, Weaver of Tales.

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