My Name

I'm ten days away from changing my last name.  I've jokingly stated for years (decades) that I couldn't wait to get rid of the "Welch" moniker, not because of any distaste for my family, but due solely to the incessant reference to a certain movie star.  Raquel Welch has followed me around for as long as I can remember, though I don't recall it being a recurring joke until I had a driver's license.  When folks meet you as Rachel, without knowing the last name, they think less of the last name upon hearing it. They recognize the difference in the names, and only note the similarity to that gorgeous, auburn-haired bombshell in passing. It's different when strangers see the name on an ID, they immediately leap to the star, give me a wink and remind me that there are worse ladies with whom to share a name. 

After 37 years I'm pretty used to the joke, pretty used to throwing out the smile, pretty used to the irony of being compared to a movie star when I'm showing my ID at Walgreens so I can buy Sudafed for the head cold from hell. Sure, lady, movie star. That's me.  Please hand over the drugs.

Perhaps for this reason, I've never felt enormously attached to my name.  And as an English major and avid reader, I found myself frequently daydreaming of other names.  In my head I was frequently Anne, Charlotte, Eleanor. I would not go so far as to say I hated my name, but I never felt Rachel was a particularly beautiful name.  It sounded harsh in the ears, a bit like a sneeze, especially coupled with the double "ch" provided by my last name. So I enjoyed nicknames, loved acquiring the "Rae" nickname in Peace Corps, reveled in the brevity of that, the beauty of a being a ray of something. Sunshine maybe. Laser beams.

As is likely typical in any relationship with a foreign-born mate, Chester receives a lot of questions from me about how to say certain words.  My Portuguese is non-existent except for some terms of endearment, niceties. But one of the first words he said to me in Portuguese was my name.  Ha'kiel. The "R" is an "H" sound in Portuguese, so the roll of my name was replaced with something softer, breathier. It's the pronunciation I've loved most.

It did not dawn on me until we were in Brazil that "Ha'kiel" was not the pronunciation of Rachel but of Raquel. The story of Rachel and Jacob in the Bible is the story of Raquel and Jaco in Portuguese. The name I'd been avoiding for 37 years was, in a matter of months and with the pronunciation of one man, the name I loved best.

I don't fault my parents for the jokes.  In their minds, they named me Rachel. Named me for a story in the Bible. Named me something familiar and strong. And I'll always be a Welch, even if I file some papers stating I prefer a move up the alphabet. But it's not the change to my last name that feels monumental, in these days before we say our vows.

Beauty is an ephemeral thing, hard to grasp, slippery, but powerful in its sparkle. Love makes beauty feel a bit more dense, something you can hold in your arms, and for me Love made my name beautiful.  It made it a name I love.  It's a simple, small thing, maybe, to hear your name in a new way.  But it seems precious, too.  It will take time to get used to a new last name.  I'll scribble the wrong signature for months, I'm sure. But Raquel already feels mine, the name I was born to share with a movie star.