When I was at school, my A-level English teacher wrote her married name on the board, circled the “s” in Mrs and declared that was the only space for her to exist in her name. “Think about that, girls,” she said. I decided then that I was never changing my name.
I love my surname, Sbuttoni, even if most people stumble over those three syllables at first. It comes from my father and is the name of a tiny hamlet in the Italian region of Emilia Romagna, where both my parents are from.
I got married at 30 and stuck to my plan. My husband had already heard my formative English teacher story (and many more of my thoughts on the patriarchy). To me, changing my name to my husband’s, Lawson, would have felt like deleting part of my identity, both in life and work — and just another way that women have had to minimise themselves in relation to men. And I didn’t have time for all the admin involved even if I’d wanted to. It was a personal decision, just as it is for those who do decide to change their name (my mum, one sister and, according to a 2016 study, 90 per cent of British women).
I’m surprised at myself that when our son was born, I didn’t suggest Sbuttoni was incorporated into his name. My decision had always been about me, I told everyone who asked (and everyone did). I was happy for our children to be Lawsons, and I joked that we could collectively be called “Sblawsons”, which is how Christmas cards have been addressed ever since.
I stopped scrolling in my tracks this week when I saw that Sir Lewis Hamilton is going to change his name. At 37, the most successful driver in the history of motor racing will take on his mother’s maiden name, Larbalestier, so that both her name and his father’s will be part of his legacy. “I don’t really fully understand the whole idea of why, when people get married, the woman loses her name,” he said. “I really want her name to continue on with the Hamilton name.”
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I took a screenshot of this and sent it to a WhatsApp group of women who were sitting in that English lesson with me more than 20 years ago — and who have all since kept their own names in some way. As with everything, it’s more complicated after having children.
One couple’s first child took the mother’s surname but their second will have the father’s, or a combination — it is still being hotly debated 39 weeks into the pregnancy. Another couple were going to go with the mother’s surname until the father got cold feet over “the male blood line thing”. A friend concluded: “Surnames are all about belonging, which can be both comforting and toxic.”
There are practicalities to think about too. I’d heard about being challenged at border control but thought it was a myth until it happened to me. I was travelling back from Italy alone with my son when officials noticed our names didn’t match. I was repeatedly asked to explain my relationship to my own baby. After a long pause and a pointed look, I was handed a print-out telling me I would need to carry his birth certificate next time we travel without his father. It’s hardened my resolve to add my name to theirs, rather than become a Lawson too.
A 2016 YouGov survey of more than 1,500 people found that most women (59 per cent) would still like to take their spouse’s surname when they get married — and 61 per cent of men wanted them to. Of those who wanted to keep their own names, 42 per cent thought their children should have a combined version. Nearly a third of men wanted the children to have their surname. But why should children automatically have their father’s name? And what about same-sex parents?
In Italy, it’s the norm to see two surnames stacked up on apartment doorbells. And in Spain both the mother and father pass their surnames to their children, though the father’s is used day to day.
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My children did have my name briefly, when a midwife scrawled “Baby Sbuttoni” on their hospital tags. I asked my husband if he would be happy to change the kids’ names now, five years on. “More than happy,” he said instantly. “I’m proud of your name because it’s you.” So when it came to it, why did neither of us think about it properly? It’s convention, tradition, a reflex even. And we were very tired at the time.
