- Elizabeth Flagg — named Denise by her parents — said she always hated her first name.
- She was desperate to change it but was concerned that her parents would feel insulted.
- Flagg waited until her mom died and her dad got dementia before officially becoming Elizabeth.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Elizabeth Flagg. It has been edited for length and clarity.
A few years after legally changing my first name from Denise to Elizabeth in 2008, I received a Christmas card from a friend that was addressed to "Denise Flagg."
I recoiled. "This person no longer lives here," I wrote on the envelope. "Return to sender."
My friend never made the same mistake. You have to draw a hard line and correct people if they don't use your correct name. Otherwise, they'll slip into old habits.
Dad picked my name. I don't think Denise particularly meant anything to him — he just liked it.
Unfortunately, I hated everything about it. Some names sound beautiful in people's ears, but others don't, like Denise. Bad connotations didn't cause my hatred. I never met anybody with that name that I didn't like. Still, I didn't even like how it was used on them.
I was bullied in junior high school, not specifically because of the D-name, as I used to call it. But the name would amplify in my head when the bullies said it. I'd cringe.
Aged 12, I took a deep breath and spoke to my mother while doing the kitchen dishes. "I want to change my name," I told her. I don't like it."
She shook her head. "You'll get used to it," she said. The matter wasn't open for debate. It was obvious that if I mentioned it again, the conversation would be closed down.
I told the judge that my name didn't fit me
But I thought about it seriously again when in college at 18. The only thing that stopped me was the fear of hurting my parents.
Sadly, my mother died young in 1981. She was 57. Looking back, I should have changed my name then. I think my father would have gotten over it.
Instead, I waited until 2008, when he was in a nursing home with dementia. Originally, I was going to carry out my plan after he died. Then it dawned on me. "What are you waiting for?" I thought. "Dad doesn't remember me at this point."
The attorney who helped me with my will made the arrangements for the name change. I wrote that the name didn't fit me. The judge read the form and stamped it. I walked into the courtroom as Denise — and out as Elizabeth Zara.
I'd always loved the name Elizabeth. I'd chosen it as my confirmation name because there was a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. She was a royal who'd been kicked out of the family and lived on the streets.
She gave money and food to poor people, and I identified with that. As for my middle name, I was learning Farsi then, and Zara was Persian.
I didn't tell anyone I was doing it, not even my then-husband. I put the paperwork on the table and said, "I've changed my name to Elizabeth." He acknowledged it immediately.
My father, who had dementia, was unfazed by the name change
I told my seven kids, and they said it didn't matter to them. They all called me "mom" anyway.
There wasn't any hassle when I showed up with my forms at the Social Security office or the DMV. The bank was the only place that took a long time to process everything.
As for Dad, around 80 by then, I visited him in the nursing home. "Hi Daddy, it's your daughter, Elizabeth," I said. He didn't bat an eye.
It's annoying because my younger sister refuses to address me by my new name. I don't know her reasons. I just have to forgive her and extend grace because I love her.
I'd urge others not to make my mistake and wait to change a name they hate. Just go ahead. Let the chips fall. It's about you — and nobody else.
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