So I am getting divorced. This isn’t ground breaking news, per se. I think it is pretty obvious I am single, given my posts of the last six months. We have been actually been separated for four years. I am just really bad at admin.
It is going to take until around September time for me to be legally single and when it is done, I have a choice to make: what to do with my name.
I’ve been Anglesea for 12 years. I’m kind of used to it now. There are a few issues with spelling it correctly and some pronunciations are hilarious (It really is just pronounced like the Welsh isle, not in some beautiful hispanic accent. Even though ‘Ang-Lay-See-Ah’ sounds so much more exotic.) But hey, I have been Jemma With a J for 41 years. Correcting the spelling of my name has always been part of my every day life.
I wanted to take my husband’s name when we married. I wanted babies and I wanted us to have the same name. Despite me identifying as feminist and hater of all things patriarchy, it never occurred to me for a second that they might all have my surname. I am 100% sure their dad would have vetoed it right away. However, I did find it hard to get used to the change.
Anglesea is nicer than my maiden name. Sorry Dad, but Anglesea just sounds a bit prettier than Gilbertson. However, there is something about being a Gilbo that is fundamentally who I am.
My family is absolutely enormous. My dad is one of 11, yet, ironically, he and his brother are the only two siblings that have kept the name for life. My dad has 9 sisters and each has surrendered their maiden name. Of the 15 million grandchildren, there are only two Gilbertsons left and just one great grandchild is likely to carry the Gilbertson name on. Unless my nieces have children and break naming conventions. I kind of hope they do.
Being a Gilbertson – regardless of your actual name – is kind of an identity. Kind of like a Scouse Mafia with less drugs, fewer guns and the only horse heads are alive and attached to horse bodies on my cousin Lisa’s farm.
Although I wasn’t close to my dad’s family growing up, there was always a sense of belonging. I have relatives everywhere – an aunty in the chippy, one in the gym, a cousin in the hardware shop, another in the beauticians. There are cousins and aunties in schools and in cafes and supermarkets. Everywhere you turn there is some kind of Gilbertson, be it an in law or an aunty or a cousin or second cousin.
Now, as an adult, I have become close to a handful of my cousins and our children attend the same school. Upon finding out we are all related, one parent exclaimed “Oh god, not another one!!” We are everywhere and you will probably know one of my relatives. (Weirdest one yet… my cousin Lee lives in Yorkshire and made friends with my friend’s sister, also living in Yorkshire. Neither me nor my friend were in Yorkshire at that time and did not introduce them. In fact, my friend was/is living in Botswana. Weird) There is a strange sense of acceptance that comes with being a Gilbo. Some Gilbos are more Gilbo than others. But we are all one of Jack and Lil’s.
My brother’s friends will still yell “Big Gilb!” at me across Tesco (I am a year older, although about a foot shorter. ‘Big’ is age, not stature. I hope) For years, I was simply ‘Gilbo’s sister.’ So when I got married, I missed being Gilbertson for a while. However, shedding my maiden name also felt like I shed the nerdy loser I was at school. I became a grown up. Cool just didn’t matter.
Conversely, becoming a Mrs made me feel old. Only old people are called Mrs. I was 29 and in no way old. (I am now 41 and still in no way old) I might become a ‘Ms’ when I am divorced. That kind of mysterious ‘Is she married? Isn’t she? Is she an old cat lady? Is she young? Is she a bra burner? Does she just want make things awkward?’ (FYI, yes. I do want to make things awkward. I am a bit of a knob like that.)
I have absolutely no intention of marrying again. Sorry lads, you are going to have to take those rings back. That includes you, Ryan Reynolds, and you as well, Greg Davies. Dave Grohl, stop begging, mate. I don’t want to do it again. Changing my name for a man won’t be happening again. But do I want to go back to Gilbertson and reclaim who I was? Or do I stick with Anglesea with my boys? Not that it matters. My mum hasn’t had the same surname as me since I was 10 and that has in no way altered who I was or changed our relationship. My mum is my mum. Even though teachers got it wrong on the regs. Hardly a big deal, just a little awkward. But everything about my name has always been awkward. Jemma with a J, right? It’s who I am.
Both names are steeped in patriarchy. They are the names of men who, 150 years ago, would have essentially owned me. So do I change it to something else entirely? Something totally random like Wozowski or De Vil? Or something really mental like ‘Jemma Erinsborough-High’ or ‘Jemma Tallulah Does The Hula In Hawaii.’
It is a massive faff to change your name; admin and forms and documents. Given how bad I am at admin (see ‘four year divorce’) and the fact my neighbour’s robotic parrot is more likely to get married than me (yes, they have a robotic parrot… that is a whole other story), I can’t see my name actually changing this year. Or next. Or the year after. So call me whatever you like. Just please spell my first name correctly.
The Jeminist 