During a routine check up this morning, my regular doctor was unable to see me, so I met with one of his partners. While reviewing my chart, this new doctor became transfixed by my last name and asked, “How’d you get a name like this?”

I thought of the years I corrected teachers on the first day of class and how I had to pronounce my name for timers at swim meets. On the day I graduated from college I had to write out the pronunciation of my last name; more recently, I pronounced my name to interviewers before we went on the air.

He didn’t wait for my answer.

“Some Italian husband, huh?”

I explained that I kept my name when I married, that I like my name and after a lifetime of living with it I couldn’t bear to change it.

He wanted to know my husband’s last name and whether we had kids. I should have told him to mind his own business, but at the time, I was too intent on making my point of view clear.

I think names are important, but I think they should be significant to the individual who owns them.

Keep your hands off my name—does anyone know where I can buy that bumper sticker?