A Dent in the Patriarchy
I changed my name when I got married. Twelve years of happy marriage later, I changed it back.
Part 1
I was born Sara Lynn Cantor. Sara for my father’s grandmother, Sylvia. Lynn for my mother’s grandfather, Louis. And Cantor because my dad, and his dad, and his dad before him, all had the last name Cantor. It’s a Jewish name, referring to the musical leader in a temple, and I was always pretty happy with it. Cantor is easy to spell and pronounce, near the top of the alphabet, and has no obviously terrible nicknames.
However, as a young woman, I always thought that if and when I got married, I would change my last name. I don’t know why, exactly — my mom changed her name, my girlfriends from college all changed their names, and I think I just thought it was the “right thing to do.” I dreamed of a big family one day, and figured that if my husband had a last name, and my kids all had that last name, then surely I should have that last name too. Otherwise, I would only be excluding myself.
The years went by, and I began dating George Aye. Before long, I started to imagine my new name as his, even writing it out — “Sara Aye,” “Sara Lynn Aye,” “Sara Cantor Aye.” Poring over the options felt romantic, as if the act of falling in love with someone was inherently tied to the act of changing one’s identity. Which as I write these words, seems like utter nonsense. But also, like a narrative that conveniently perpetuates the status quo. More on that in a bit.
After I actually married George in 2008, and came back from our joyful wedding and whirlwind honeymoon, I went back to the office and sat down at my desk. And instead of jumping into work, I plunged headfirst into my giant list of to-do’s related to my name change. Marriage certificate, check. Now all I needed was a social security card, and a drivers license, and a passport, and oh my god a new bank account, and a new email address, and an updated Facebook profile, and a new CVS rewards card, and, and, and…holy jeez. A task that I’d thought was one task (“change name”) was actually well over a hundred tasks. Plus all the time spent on hold. The trips to various government agency offices. The standing in line. The gathering copies of forms. It was…a lot. You could say that my previous fervor for becoming Sara Aye was ever so slightly dampened by the ridiculousness of the bureaucratic hurdles I was now clearing on a daily or weekly basis. Meanwhile, my husband was doing, well, anything but this!
It took me a year to complete my name change to-do list. A whole year. “At least,” I thought to myself, “I’ll never have to do THAT again.”
Part 2
I settled into married life as Sara Cantor Aye. We bought a condo. On the mortgage: “George and Sara Aye.” I didn’t exactly need my middle name to show up on these important documents, but it still felt like something was missing on my side of the line. Oh well. We got a dog, then cats, and finally, in 2011, we had a baby. Sophie Lwin Aye. Sophie for my mother’s mother. Lwin for George’s sister. And Aye because, of course. Kids get their father’s name. This was never a discussion, just an assumption.
The other thing that happened in 2011 was I quit my job to start a company with George. This had not been the plan forever, but we both felt it was time for a change, and we wanted to work together. Now to back up just a bit, George and I are both human-centered designers. We met when I was an aspiring designer in graduate school, and he was a working professional. I actually first cozied up to him because I hoped he’d remember me the next time his company was hiring! Design has always been a big part of both of our lives, our individual identities, and even our shared identity as a couple. But I never anticipated that we would actually be together in the same professional settings, or that sharing his last name would be detrimental for me.
In fact, I remember a counter-narrative when I was nearing my wedding date. People would say things like, “You’re a professional woman, you might want to keep your name if you have a good reputation in your field.” To which I would think, “Me? A good reputation? Ha! I’m just a design researcher, doing my design research thing, here inside this company. If I ever get a new job, it will be because I worked hard, not because of my ‘reputation.’” It actually seemed egotistical and self-indulgent to keep my last name, as if I thought I was enough of a big deal that my reputation needed to be preserved. (Looking back: what a self-defeating narrative!)
But the challenges began almost as soon as we started the company. I remember a first meeting with a potential client, a male executive, to whom George introduced me as his wife. That man said hello, shook my hand cordially, and proceeded to literally never look at me again. The entire meeting, whenever I would say something, he would either look down or look at George. I quickly learned that my speaking up was essentially pointless. I don’t know if this man was even conscious of what he was doing, but the phenomenon was undeniable and shocking. The saddest part for me is that afterwards, when I was ranting in the hallway, George let me know that he hadn’t even noticed.
Of course he was appalled, and we quickly made the decision to never mention our marital relationship when meeting new people in a business context. George has been true to his word ever since, always calling me his co-founder. Because, as we realized that day, being married carries little baggage for him, but for me, it’s loaded with assumptions. Did that man think I was there to take notes for George? I’ll never know for sure, but the chances are not zero.
We carried on, and our business flourished. And even though we no longer led with the married thing, people still focused on it. Once we were being interviewed for a local business journal. The reporter spent time interviewing us, both together and separately, and even sent a photographer out to capture us in our natural habitat:
The article went live, and we were flooded with emails. The first wave were from male friends and colleagues, saying things like, “Wow, I saw you guys in Crain’s, great article!” Then came the second wave, from female friends and coworkers, all asking, “Why did they have to describe you as his wife?”
It turns out that twice, right up front, I am referred to as George’s wife. He is the subject of the sentence, the protagonist in the story. I am the accessory. The sentence could easily survive without me. (The company could not!) Why not just describe us as peers or partners? If the married thing is that interesting to your readers, why not describe George as Sara’s husband? I called up the reporter to ask for an explanation. He told me that George was on the left in the photograph, hence the caption started with him. He also thanked me for opening his eyes to the issue, and pledged to be more aware of it in the future, but that no, sorry, Crain’s could not reprint the article.
Now just to clarify, George is amazing. I think he’s brilliant and inspiring and I feel constantly lucky to get to work with him. But it felt like society was pitting us against each other. Of course, it’s silly to feel competitive with my partner, particularly when his success is literally my success. But I’m an ambitious person, and I want to make the most positive impact on the world that I possibly can. Yet everywhere I turned, there was someone or something comparing me to my husband. As if I couldn’t stand on my own. This made my inner two-year-old want to scream, “It’s not fair!” It also steadily reinforced my impostor syndrome.
Like this one day. We had a big meeting with a potential client. After two hours of sharing our work and discussing their project, during which George and I both contributed to the conversation, we were wrapping up with some casual chit chat. One of the women said, “I just have to ask…are you two married?” We admitted that indeed, we were married, and she clapped with delight and started to ask us the usual questions about how we balance work and family. I was happy to build a more personal relationship, but I worried that it would undermine my credibility with this organization.
My answer came a few weeks later, when we had a follow-up call to meet their CEO. We were working from home, and when George and I both entered the Zoom, the same woman asked why, since we were married, were we not sitting in the same room? I jokingly explained that while working from home we tried to be as far away from each other as possible. But then the CEO started a round of introductions, and on my turn, for some unknown reason, I said “I’m Sara, and in addition to being George’s wife, I’m also our cofounder and executive director.”
Why did I say this? What deep insecurity caused me to cut myself off at the knees like this? I knew the woman took joy in our relationship, but was this small token of personal connection worth opening with such a minimizing line? Even if the comment didn’t register with the CEO, I was like those girls taking a math test. The ones who are reminded they are girls, and therefore do worse on the test, because they know girls aren’t supposed to be good at math. I was nervous and flustered for the rest of the call.
I understand why we make a cute story. Who doesn’t love a good Mom and Pop business? And I recognize the enormous amount of privilege I had accumulated (white, US citizen, educated, financially stable) to even be able to start a company. But it dawned on me in this moment: none of the married business owners I knew shared a last name. I went through my mental Rolodex: she kept her name, she kept her name, huh, she also kept her name. This is a pattern. Maybe these women knew something that I didn’t know. But I was starting to know.
Being married diminishes me in the eyes of others. It makes sense, given the history of marriage as essentially the ownership of a woman being transferred from father to husband. But even today, being married helps men get jobs, while it hurts women’s chances (even more if there are kids involved). And in our context, where we co-lead a company, when someone learns we are married, they assume George is the boss. It’s like they need a hierarchy to make sense of us. They talk to him about projects while they talk to me about childcare. I once had a client walk by our conference room and ask me if it was George’s office. Granted, George happened to be sitting inside. But no, that is not George’s office.
The narrative of patriarchy is so ingrained that we can’t even imagine ourselves without it. It was created by people in power (men) to stay in power. And every time I threaten it by being a badass and doing something amazing, patriarchy distracts me with a thousand tiny excuses — maybe I just got lucky, maybe it was all my team, maybe he’s actually better with clients, maybe I’m actually better with kids. Maybe he should be the boss. Maybe I do need saving. These thoughts are unacceptable, but I still have them.
So something had to give. George is an amazing husband and father, in addition to being an amazing business partner, so I certainly had no desire to change our relationship. Instead, I decided to change my name. Again.
Part 3
It turns out that, twelve years later, the act of changing one’s name has not gotten easier. In fact, when not preceded by a marriage or divorce, it’s actually harder. Filing the paperwork and publishing the ad in the paper and appearing for a (virtual) court date was just the beginning. I’m now staring down the laundry list of places to contact, which has also gotten longer since I now have three kids, a house and all of the accompanying documentation, accounts, insurance, schools, camps, doctors, library cards, etc. I am a grown-ass woman and that means bureaucracy, all over again.
I’m not excited about doing this stupid work. I’m not excited to have a different last name than my kiddos. I’m not excited to explain to my daughter or my sons that the world assumes less of me than their father for no reason other than the fact that I am female.
But as I sat in Zoom court this Thursday, and heard the judge say “Okay, Ms. Cantor, you’re all set,” I felt this strange sense of liberation. It felt a bit like flying. A lightness. Yes, I will still be married to my co-founder. And yes, people will still want to know if we are married, will still want to talk to me about our kids, will still ask me how George could possibly be handling things at home while I am traveling for work. We still live in a patriarchal society, and by changing my last name, I have not changed that truth.
But I have changed how I orient myself to that society. I’ve reclaimed a part of my identity that had gone missing. I’ve taken a small step for womankind that was actually a giant leap for me. Because it turns out that I do have a reputation, it does matter, and I would like it to be more than “George’s wife.”
So, hi.👋🏻 I’m Sara Cantor. I am a mother who nurses her baby while speaking on panel discussions. I am a wife who does as much yard work as her husband does laundry. I was a spelling bee champion and a failed engineer, and now I run a 12-person social innovation studio in Chicago. One of my employees just happens to be my husband. He’s great, you should meet him. But yeah. I’m the boss. Oh I’m sorry, hang on one second, I hear a funny noise. Do you hear that? It’s the sound of glass breaking, softly in the distance.
