22

I married at age 22. I married a man who appeared to be a feminist. After 46 years of being together I can report with certainty that he is a feminist. He has become over the years a more and more radical feminist. Sometimes I have to remind him that we don’t hate all men.

We knew what we were doing, getting married. We were both living in our hometown, and we announced to our four parents that we were moving in together. They all four cried, threatened, insulted, railed, and called out the sheriff. We showed them; we got married three weeks later.

We knew what we were doing. I didn’t change my name. Did I ever stick it to them! My mother told me that I wasn’t given a middle name because I would get married and then I’d have a middle name. Hah! I still press my penpoint extra hard when I draw a line through the Middle Initial box. And the box for Maiden Name! Don’t get me started.

We knew what we were doing. My father-in-law checked with an attorney to find out whether keeping my name was even legal. He was surprised to learn it was. We received only one monogrammed wedding gift and I gave it to my in-laws.

We knew what we were doing. We overcame all hurdles until it was time to apply for health insurance, and we were denied because our names weren’t the same. We took the issue to the human rights commissioner and won our case. What a victory for Western Civilization!

We knew what we were doing. When the kids came along, we carefully considered their options: dad’s name, mom’s name, hyphenated name, change dad’s name to mom’s name so we’d all be the same name. Come up with an original non-patriarchal name, like Skywalker. I settled on reason: there were witnesses to their being my children, so they should have their dad’s name (no witnesses).

That was OK. The Williamses and Jenny Loustau. It gave me a little space from my family. People had to memorize my name if they wanted to invite me to the party. Everything was fine until my younger daughter (See 29) decided that she liked my French name and wanted both names. I was so flattered – even though it was my father’s name – that I applied for her long-form gold-stamped birth certificate, filed the papers, and paid $200 so that she could have both names.

We knew what we were doing. Until we didn’t (See 35). Today my feminist husband and I watch Queer Eye together and analyze the beautiful messages it broadcasts, about non-traditional unions, about gender-fluid identity, about acceptance of differences, about love. Together we don’t know what we’re doing, we’re happy with that, and we’re going to keep doing that.