A post I wrote for PDXX Collective on names, identity, erasure and Betty Draper.
On Sunday, I caught snippets of my husband Matt’s Mother’s Day phone call with his mom. I was trying not to eavesdrop in between running out to water the new plant starters and sautéeing onions for dinner because frankly that’s a dick move. But I couldn’t help overhearing him describe his recent bout of tonsillitis waged just days before.
“Yeah, I’m feeling better,” he said. “The medication was making me feel even worse at first, but my wife called and got me a new antibiotic prescription.”
My wife? I’m not close with my in-laws, but they are certainly aware of my name. Was it too difficult to say? Too many syllables? Nothing compared to that lumbering last name you saddled me with, my husband.
“Why did you call me ‘my wife’?” I asked as soon as he’d disconnected the call. “I have a name, you know.”
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