That's Z as in Zebra

Winston Churchill once said, “To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”

Like him, I've never been particularly afraid of change. In my 49 years, I’ve moved 30 times, had 13 jobs, owned 12 cars, went to 11 schools, had three mortgages and two husbands. And although I’ve never felt the joy of paying off a car, burning a mortgage, going to a school reunion or reaching a 20-year anniversary (wedding, job or otherwise), the freedom of being able to move forward has always been worth any stress that came with it.

Which is why, when I got remarried a few months ago, I decided without hesitation to change my last name to my husband’s. I had done so once before, in 2004, and it was a piece of cake. Back then, my new last name was Olsen. Short, sweet, easy to spell. The worst that ever happened was people misspelling it as Olson with two O’s, or asking if I knew Mary-Kate and Ashley. But for the most part, it was easy-peasy.

I bet the Olsen twins got asked all the time whether I was related to them.

This time? Not so much.

“Name, please?” the woman from the Social Security Administration said on the other end of the phone.

“Zamarron,” I replied.

“Um, can you spell that for me?” she said. (If I had a dollar now for every time I’ve heard that, I would hire a personal assistant to do nothing but follow me around all day and spell my name to inquiring strangers.)

“Sure … it’s Z-a-m-a-r-r-o-n,” I said, proud that I had even spelled it correctly on the first try. Admittedly, sometimes I get lost in the M’s and R’s and add too many here or there. Trust me when I say you’ve never been quite so embarrassed—or suspicious—as when you tell someone, “Oops! I spelled my name wrong. Can I spell it again for you?”

But Social Security Lady seemed very confident. “OK, so that’s “S-a-m-m-what?” she prodded.

“No, no,” I corrected. “It’s Z as in zebra. Then A as in …” My brain scrambled for an A word. “Apple!” I blurted. I continued to hand out random fruits and vegetables like an old-timey street huckster. “M as in mango! A as in avocado! R as in radish! Another R as in raspberry!” Around this time my head was spinning. Not only had I lost my place, but I was also realizing it was lunchtime. Still, I pressed on. “O as in orange! N as in nachos!” I said with absurd enthusiasm.

I felt ridiculous. Social Security Lady didn’t care (do they ever?), but I felt like a failure. I’ve got to figure out how to do this without embarrassing myself or looking like I’m trying to commit identity fraud, I thought to myself.

During that whole Carmen Miranda fruity debacle, I had desperately searched my brain for military call letters. But having never served in the armed forces, my knowledge of those began and ended with the movie “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” and unfortunately, the letters WTF didn’t apply. (Well, at least not in my name.) Not to mention that my brain kept reverting to the Greek letters of COVID-19 variants. (Alpha and omicron would have worked, but pretty much everybody knows by now that delta can’t help ya. Ba dum, tss!)

I looked up the appropriate military call letters: Zulu-Alpha-Mike-Alpha-Romeo-Romeo-Oscar-November. O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, but it certainly wouldn’t be spelt like “radish.”

Now, I fully acknowledge that things could be way, way worse. I could have ended up with a consonant-challenged Polish name like Brzęczyszczykiewicz. Imagine singing “Banana-fanna-fo-fanna” to that one! Or I could have married the Guinness World Record holder for the longest name, a guy named Hubert Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff. (The full spelling of his name is actually much longer than that—compensate much?)

He probably drove a Porsche, too.

As it is, I’m already committing the sin of Americanizing and mispronouncing my new Mexican last name, which is supposed to sound much fancier by rolling the double R’s, something I cannot seem to do. It's probably because I’m a white Italian girl from Jersey who took French in high school, and the only Spanish I know is "Yo no hablo español," which ironically means I don't speak Spanish. (I like to think this throws Spanish-speakers for a loop. Does she or doesn't she? Try asking her where the library is!)

Anyway, even if I can’t pronounce my name properly, I am getting lots of practice spelling it.

Nowadays, the year on the calendar seems to be mathematically related to the number of websites you’ll need to log into to change your name. Back in ’04, in the Much Easier Olsen Era, changing my name might have required visiting just 4 websites, and they were simple stuff like AOL, eBay, online-seller-of-actual-books Amazon and perhaps MySpace if you were cool (which I wasn’t).

But in ’22, you’ll have to visit at least 22 websites—and then almost certainly multiply that by two. (Have I mentioned I hate math?) There’s Gmail, bank accounts, credit cards, health insurance and every utility bill you can think of. There’s a gazillion streaming services for TV and music, dozens of shopping and food apps, and umpteen social media websites. There’s online-seller-of-books?-what-are-books? Amazon. There’s voter registration, 401(k)s and 529s. The list, like Mr. Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff’s name, just goes on and on. My list has 46 websites on it.

Some of them go easy on you—a quick dip into your profile, and it’s hullo to the missus! But others are like jealous old boyfriends who cause a drunken scene at your wedding during the “forever hold your peace” part. Etsy, for example, won’t let you change your name at all, instead forcing you to delete the app and start from scratch. (And that’s how you don’t get invited to the reception.)

It’s been overwhelming trying to tackle this. I’ve kept a running list on my iPhone, and even now, months after tying the knot, I’m only halfway finished because so many websites are “two-parters” where you must first change your name here, then you can change it there. And don’t get me started on the fact that I changed my email address, too—I have been drowning in a sea of text verifications and security questions. I swear to you that I am not a robot, even if I can’t spot all those damned street signs on the first try.

Still, I am happy to report that I recently received my new Social Security card in the mail, and yes, it was spelled correctly despite my blubbering on the phone. My full name barely fit on the card. (Supposedly there’s a limit; just ask Genevieve Catlyn Williamson Heidenreich, who was denied a card with her entire name on it.) My husband, who has watched this whole process with curiosity, rejoiced that I have now “officially doubled the number of Zamarron residents in Dayton.” That’s math I don’t mind doing.

I gotta tell you, the change feels good. And I'll keep hacking away at my long list because as Churchill also said, "Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never." I'm guessing old Winnie never had to do battle at the DMV to change his name on his driver's license. But that's a whole other story for another day.

Now Hiring: Someone to follow me around and spell my name. Knowledge of produce helpful, but not required. Spelling bee winners encouraged to apply! Call 555-5555 and ask for Lauren Sammaron ... Zimaronn ... ZAMARRON.