My St. Patrick’s Independence Day

by Sheri O'Sullivan

St. Patrick’s Day is very important to me. Not just because I’m Irish or that I have red hair and freckles. St. Patty’s Day is the anniversary of my Independence. After my second (!) divorce I didn’t want to keep his last name. I didn’t want to go back to my first husband’s last name either. I didn’t want to go back to my maiden name because I had always hated it. I wanted a name that belonged to me, naturally.

I spent days and nights thinking about a new name for myself. I’d always liked my first name, Sheri, because I rarely ran into anyone else with it. And even then, we usually didn’t spell our names the same way. So I knew I would keep Sheri as my first name. My middle name is Ann, which was also my mother’s middle name, so that would remain. I didn’t want a cute name. I didn’t want a name that rhythmed with my first name either. I wanted a name that would represent me.

Leaving my second husband was an act of courage for me. I’d spent eight years taking abuse, physical and especially mental abuse. When you have to carry the whole load of a marriage; working full time, cooking, doing laundry, caring for young children, paying all the bills while your spouse spends their days in the pool hall drinking (and putting it on a tab, another bill to pay) it can make a person bitter, depressed, and hopeless. The last beating was the last straw. I called the police; he went to jail. I got a restraining order. I also moved, stopped going out to lunch and ate at my desk where I felt safe. It took at least nine months for me to stop being afraid.

I was still standing and stronger than I’d been in years. I wanted a name that would fit this new me. One day on the bus ride home I was looking out the window and day-dreaming, when I saw my reflection. Except it wasn’t me. It was my mother’s face. And suddenly I had a flash of my new name. I was so excited. It was perfect. I instantly fell in love with it. I decided to make this name permanent.

So, on that rainy St. Patrick’s Day, I filed to legally change my name, in front of a judge, who happened to be Irish. I changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name, Sullivan. I realize it was my grandfather’s name, but since he’d dropped the O’ to make it plain old Sullivan when he passed through Ellis Island, I made it mine and put the O’ back.

The judge was tickled when I told him my reason for changing my name and he stamped his approval. I walked out into the sunshine and felt a wave of happiness from my feet to my head. And wouldn’t you just know it; there was a rainbow in the sky. I swear the green bow was extra bright.