My Married Name Has Outlived My Marriage
I’ve been thinking lately that I should go back to my maiden name. I’m not entirely sure why.
Maybe because my husband has moved on. Maybe because, although my children and I share his last name, it doesn’t feel entirely mine anymore. Or maybe because divorce is the world's longest administrative process and apparently, years later, I’m still finding emotional paperwork I forgot to file.
The problem is, I built an entire person around the name Brandy Greenwell.
Brandy Greenwell became a mother. Built a business. Sold houses. Wrote things. Made friends. Survived things. Her name is on contracts, websites, signs, social media and probably 14,000 databases that will continue emailing her until 2087.
I branded the shit out of Brandy Greenwell. So changing my name now feels less like updating my driver’s license and more like a corporate reorganization.
But lately I’ve wondered if maybe Brandy Greenwell has finished her shift.
My birth name is Elizabeth Brandon Sells.
Yes. Elizabeth. Plot twist.
Elizabeth had no particular family significance, and Brandon came from a distant aunt on my father’s side. Perfectly respectable provenance—except I came of age in the Beverly Hills, 90210 era, when Brandon was not a distinguished family name belonging to a woman. Brandon was Jason Priestley.
So Elizabeth never felt like me, Brandon felt like a teenage heartthrob, and somehow I ended up being called Brandy. Obviously.
I have always been Brandy. Family lore says I was baptized at the Episcopal church—Whiskapalian, if you speak fluent Brandy—alongside a little girl named Sherry.
Sherry and Brandy. At a baptism. Nothing concerning there. Given the role alcohol would eventually play in my life, I feel like someone really should have caught the foreshadowing.
And so I became Brandy Sells. A name I disliked. I tried to change it numerous times—Liz, Lizzy, Brandon, E.B. Sells. Nothing stuck.
“Brandy” already sounded like someone who should spell it Brandi, dot the i with a puffy heart and possibly have her name announced over a microphone in a room with questionable carpeting.
And, of course, according to Looking Glass, Brandy was a fine girl who would make a good wife. Even fictional Brandy couldn't close the deal. He chose the sea. Jesus Christ. I couldn't even get picked in my own theme song. Adding “Sells” did not improve matters.
Then I got married. And I was thrilled to become Brandy Greenwell. It sounded grown-up.
Respectable. Like a woman who owned matching luggage. More importantly, it meant I belonged to someone. I loved that.
Taking my husband’s name felt romantic and permanent. There was suddenly a we where there had always been a me. Then we had children and all four of us shared the same name. I had my family. I belonged.
And perhaps that is why contemplating changing it now feels so much bigger than what name appears on my AmEx. Because I’m not really deciding what people should call me.
I’m trying to figure out who the hell I am.
There is, however, one deeply irritating development in this identity crisis.
I became a Realtor.
Which means the maiden name I spent half my life thinking sounded like a stripper is now possibly the greatest real estate brand ever bestowed upon a human being.
Brandy Sells.
You have got to be kidding me.
BRANDY SELLS HUNT COUNTRY.
BRANDY SELLS VIRGINIA.
BRANDY SELLS FARMS.
Apparently my parents didn't name a baby. They created a call to action. I have spent years—and actual money—developing a real estate brand when apparently Brianne and Lud nailed the assignment in 1975.
And it gets worse. My father’s first name is Lister.
Lister Sells.
Are you fucking kidding me? The man was born with a real estate slogan for a name and didn't even become a Realtor. What a waste of generational branding.
So perhaps there is a practical argument for returning to Sells. Unfortunately, this isn't really about SEO. Because I don't quite feel like Brandy Sells anymore.
And increasingly, I’m not sure I feel like Brandy Greenwell either.
Elizabeth Brandon Sells sounds like an elegant woman I haven't met yet. She has monogrammed stationery, remembers birthdays without Facebook and probably knows exactly where her reading glasses are. I’d like to meet her.
Maybe I'm somewhere between all three women.
There is the girl I was.
The wife I became.
And the woman standing here now, at this strange, wonderful, occasionally brutal midpoint of life, trying to figure out what comes next.
For most of my life, belonging has meant being somebody's something.
Someone's daughter. Someone's girlfriend. Someone's wife. Someone's mother. Someone's friend.
Someone's ex.
And somewhere inside all those apostrophe-S's, I lost track of the noun. Me.
So maybe I'll stay Greenwell.
Maybe I'll become Sells again.
Maybe Elizabeth Brandon will finally make her grand entrance, presumably wearing cashmere and carrying the aforementioned matching luggage.
I don't know.
And that's uncomfortable for someone who generally likes to know exactly where she's going. Right now, I feel a little lost. But maybe being lost isn't always about not knowing where you are. Sometimes it's realizing the place you used to call home doesn't fit anymore—and you haven't named the new one yet.
For the first time in my life, I don't belong to anyone. And maybe that's not the sad ending I thought it was. Maybe I don't need someone else's name to tell me where I belong. Maybe I belong to myself.
Although, purely from a marketing standpoint...
Brandy Sells.
Goddammit, Mom and Dad
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