The New Me?

I Googled "Arielle Harrison" the other day. Just wanted to see who else had staked out the name.

For 26 years, I've been the only person with my name on the planet (as far as Google and I can tell). This has typically irritated me. Unique means spelling it for everyone you meet, repeating it over and over again, and wishing for a name like "Ann Lee."

I've ranted before in other places about the inconveniences of having two last names. People think I'm married. Or they think one is a middle name, and that I'm pretentious. It may have seemed cutting-edge back in the early '80s, but at least in the popular imagination, the whole two-name thing apparently didn't catch on.

Of course, the real problem with the two names (for the uninitiated: one is my mom's, the other is my dad's) is the looming question of what you do when you get married or have kids. If giving your child both parents' names is some sort of strike against the sexist notion that only a man's name counts enough to be passed on, what is the next generation supposed to do?

I have some time to think of the child part, but marriage is coming. I figure these are my options:
Give up my last names, take Rick's (feminism be damned)
Keep my name (simplicity be damned)
Add Rick's name and use three last names (logic and dignity be damned)
Combine last names and make up a new one (the point of last names be damned)
Give up last names, insist on being referred to as Arielle (gag reflex be damned)

I'd always planned on giving up my last name and just taking my husband's, the feminism-be-damned scenario. Well, that was the stated plan, anyway. Now that I'm faced with the prospect, it doesn't seem so easy. It may be the choice of 90 percent of married women, but something about changing your name seems strange. In my head a long line of independent, strong women are shaking their heads, disappointed.

I have an excuse, I tell myself. Having two names makes it more complicated than the simple, change-or-no-change decision. I figure I'd keep mine if it were a simple, singular name. The one I've got makes it look like I'm already married to someone. And if I have a husband and (imaginary) kids with another last name, that seems odd. I'd like to be one family with one name.

Still, I want to know what I'm getting into with the name. Hence, Google. What kind of a person is an Arielle Harrison?

There are only a handful, it turns out. One appears to be a runner of some sort, possibly a student at Brigham Young. One apparently lives in Mississippi and describes herself as "a nice big boned girl who luvs 2 play these games when im bored but they r fun 2 play." One is apparently 37 and from Latvia. None seem to be convicted felons, or at least, aren't on any Top 10 Most Wanted lists, which is a plus.

Why exactly does this matter? I'm not sure it does. Perhaps Googling your name with your honey's last name is this century's answer to cursive doodling of an imaginary married name, though I'd been playing with the name "Arielle Harrison" in my head long before I thought to try Google.

Does it matter what the other people with my would-be name do? Would that somehow color the name, or perhaps some cosmic sense of what being an Arielle Harrison means? (For those of you with common names, this is probably a rather silly point. I'd imagine my friends Elizabeth Williams and Brian Lee don't much bother with this line of questioning.)

I suppose what I'm really trying to scope out is a new version of me, with a new name and some sort of legal commitment to another person. How much is name tied to identity? Would I really be giving up something of myself (aside from annoyance) if I give up my name? And if not, why does it seem like such a strangely weighty decision?