I got my new social security card in the mail a few weeks ago. Identical to the one issued to me in 1998, I carefully ripped through the perforated edges, practiced my signature on a notepad beside me, and then swirled my new name with the best pen I own: one I smuggled out of the office. Adeline Maude Murphree.
As I filed it away into an old paper filing basket filled with Price’s insurance slips, my credit card registration, and old paychecks from Ouachita, I thought about how I had never even seen my mom’s original social security card. Of course I didn’t; she had to turn it in.
Mom told me that was one of the hardest parts of getting married: losing her name. She said when she got it legally changed, she wanted to beg to keep her old cards as record of Karrie Whalen. (And if that’s the hardest thing about marriage, then I am good to go!) There is just something so odd about being known by one name your entire existence, and then after one singular night of wedding cake and tears, it’s gone.
And yes, I fully understand some may say taking your husband’s name is an outdated tradition, an act against feminism. I see that argument as valid, however, I’ve always wanted to follow the tradition of making one new family with my husband and his last name. So here I am.
Two weeks before we got married, I attended the wedding of a close family friend. Our hometown guest list shared a few of the same names, so I spent the night small-talking about how we too were getting excited for our wedding day. At one point, I recognized the dread of emotion we were all feeling: Mom, Dad, Price, and me. I told them that I can even get choked up at the thought of losing my last name, how I’d miss introducing myself as Addy Goodman. That night, I hoped that sentiment wasn’t taken the wrong way.
Because really, I’ve been thinking and dreaming about my name being Addy Murphree for quite some time now. Practicing my signature like a ten year old girl with a church crush. I researched new social media usernames, created accounts on Hello Fresh, Crime Junkie, and Discover in my soon-to-be name (with the excuse that it’ll be changed eventually anyways!), and would remind Price a few times a week that we would soon be the Murphrees. I feel like it rolls off the tongue: Addy Murphree, Addy Murphree, Addy Murphree. I like how it rhymes, how it remains the same number of syllables as before. It sounds strong, unique, and like me -- in my opinion.
And now, the last thing I have to accomplish in order to be completely, 100 percent Addy Murphree is get a new driver’s license. A task that seems so painfully simple, but is awfully not. A few weeks ago, I had a rare Friday morning to get things done. I needed to do married woman things such as pick up the dry cleaning, mail straggling thank you notes and shoes I sold on Instagram, replace the fruit drawer’s paper towel base, and meet my husband for lunch. I decided to start at the DMV. I went around 9:30, thinking that was early enough...surely. I called ahead of time to make sure I had every single document needed to prove my name is legally changed. The lady on the phone told me to bring my driver’s license, my marriage certificate, and my new social security card. Check, check, check. I rolled my hair and did my makeup (even with mascara, which I’ve stopped putting forth effort on since the wedding) and wore a cute new J.Crew blouse in preparation for the photo that will last me probably a decade of identification. Addy Murphree is a prepared woman.
When I stepped into the DMV, a ginormous room so reminiscent of my middle school cafeteria, I had the first inkling of doubt at my preparedness. I ripped a number from the machine in the middle: 57. Then I heard the monotone voice of a state employee repeat the number 84. It felt like there were at least 100 people in that room, lining the walls like ants. I leaned my back on the cinderblock and thanked Jesus my phone was charged and for the creation of Pinterest. Slowly, as if we were paying respect to those who had paid their time waiting, people began to make their way to the coveted six rows of seats in the middle of the room. After about an hour of standing, I, too, claimed a spot.
Two and a half hours and multiple observations of others cutting in line later, my number was called. I’ll admit: I kind of felt sick, as I watched the television screens list the documents needed for the new Arkansas license, the one with gold and the passport and whatever else, and realized I didn’t have a piece of mail and my hard copy birth certificate. But I kept telling myself that they wouldn’t need my birth certificate; if I had my driver’s license and my social security card, wouldn’t that prove the validity of my birth? And the efficient Addy Murphree had registered for the USPS Daily Digest; I had scanned copies of all my mail from the week before sent to me every morning.
When I got to the counter, the worker spouted off everything I needed, ending the list with a birth certificate. My face felt hot, and I know it turned red. “Would a scanned copy work?” I tried explaining that I had called earlier, that I spoke to one of her coworkers. The woman responded, “Yeah, I keep telling her not to do that,” and dismissed me. A tiny 8x10 headshot of the Governor hung above her head. For a split second, I wondered if she would believe me if I told her who I worked for. I work for the man on the wall and who I defend on random phone calls with Arkansans claiming he’s a “rat possum face” and a terrible leader for our state and who “better never cut into my paid programming ever again.” But I decided that wouldn’t have made a difference, and I left.
So while I’m struggling to get my name legally changed on all legal fronts, I’ve spent the summer choosing activities, books (taking great pride in registering my new library card under my new name, thinking to myself how very Addy Murphree it is to carry a library card on my keychain), expenses (sets of dip powder nails), and outfits that I believe fit what Addy Murphree would choose. I find it so silly and timely that my name would change during the biggest identity crisis of my short nearly 23 years, all at the fault of the novel coronavirus. A global pandemic that kicked me out of college, scattering my best friends, leaving me a job market just shy of impossible, and a life that feels shaky every time I step foot outside of the comfort of our new home. I have a new husband, new job, new city, new friends, new name. And since March of 2020, I really do see a completely new Addy. So much has shifted. Mindsets, friendships, grocery preferences, socializing capabilities, even my perfume of choice. I laugh thinking how just two years ago I was Addy Goodman - college student, avid socializer, chronically busy- and now, I’m Addy Murphree - government employee, repeat Ann Taylor customer and wife. But I think that is fitting. I’ve monitored and adjusted. (Well, as much as one can in these unprecedented yet somehow precedented times.)
However, the best thing this pandemic gave me to cope with a start-of-life identity crisis is this: a closed social security office with a mail-in new card application that didn’t require the old to be sent, leaving the Adeline Maude Goodman written in my Mom’s big handwriting with me forever.
Xoxo. A
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