“Mum, can I change my name? Can I have your surname? I really want to be a Vnuk. Please.”
That was what my son asked me last night. He’s six.
I didn’t take on my husband’s surname when I got married. Never considered it. I’m from a family of feminist women, and none of us changed our surnames when we got married, although we had a pretty strong incentive to.
I mean, who wants to be lumbered with a name like Vnuk all their lives?
Growing up in 1970s white-bread-with-fritz-and-sauce Adelaide, Vnuk was definitely weird. We were the only Vnuks in South Australia, and one of only two Vnuk families in Australia. If anyone ever said to me, “Are you related to…?” the answer was always, “Yes.”
Anyone who grew up with a weird surname knows what it’s like. You come to dread that moment when someone sitting behind a desk asks for your full name.
“Vnuk,” you say. “V-N-U-K.” (Okay, I’ve made it as easy for you as possible. Please just write it down.)
“V-E-N?”
“No, just V-N. V-N-U-K.” (It’s my name. Trust me, I know how to spell it.)
“Oh, that’s an unusual name.”
“Yes, yes, it is.” (I’m actually already aware of this, because I’ve had it all my life.)