My legal name is not actually Karen Cheng. I’ve changed my surname to take my husband’s name.

It’s is a beautiful classic Scottish name, and after 4 years I’m surprised that I’m still not *completely* used to it being MY name. Every time I hear my name being called in the doctor’s surgery, it takes me a few seconds to register, “Oh shit, that’s me!”

In some ways, it’s a little weird. A part of me feels adrift in the sea of ancestral roots. Like I’ve walked away from a Cheng history and adopted a new identity and legacy of some ancestors I don’t know anything about.

Yet the other part of me feels unwavered, because I -equally- don’t know anything about my Cheng ancestors, except for a couple of cool dinner party stories. Plus I don’t feel any need to prove to others who I still am - Chinese.

The reasons for my name change are the obvious ones. I wanted to be connected to my husband and children. I wanted my family to be a tight little unit. Avoid confusions. And I think it’s a nice tradition.

After I got married and changed my name, my husband and I took a few hours off work one day, to visit the bank.

After the epic of filling out forms to combine bank accounts, the clerk went over the documents one last time. She spotted that I had signed as “Karen Cheng” and refused to process the documents unless I signed with my new name. I refused back. Arguing that it didn’t matter what I signed, as long as it was the same EVERY time. Grr.

We had a little argument, which resulted in us walking outside to take “a little break”. We went to a nearby cafe and I practised my new signature - the one I’d use for the rest of my LIFE - on bits of soggy paper napkins.

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