Before My Wedding a True Identity Crisis

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Before My Wedding, A True Identity Crisis

By Catherine Getches

Sunday, September 14, 2003; Page B03

BOULDER, Colo.

When I was growing up, I never worried much about my name. Bart Simpson,

for instance, would never be tempted to prank-call a bartender and ask if there

was a Catie Getches in the house -- not in the way that an "I.P. Freeley" or "Ben

Dover" just begs to be said aloud. Actually, the most laughter my name ever

provoked was on the playground, and even then it was no match for what

Rainbow Harmony Mars and Ralph Rottenberger, two of my friends, had to

endure. Around the time hormones cued boys into the fact that I was a girl, the

best they could do was "Catie the Cootie" and "Sketchy Getches." All in all,

nothing much to complain about.

But the naming penalties I avoided on the playground started to

catch up with me later. "Ms. Getchell, 1 million dollars is

yours!" announced the Publishers Clearing House envelopes. Credit card

companies offered special "0% interest" rates to "Mrs. Gretches" and "Catlin

Getcher."

Still, no big deal -- until I realized that government employees had the same

penchant for misspelling my name as the bulk mailers. My passport came back

with a "z" inserted into my last name three days before my departure to

Argentina, a mistake I didn't even notice until a co-worker pointed it out. He

jokingly wondered if I were secretly Greek and particularly heavy-handed with

the peroxide bottle. But if "Catherine Getzhes" didn't trigger any alarms with

airline clerks and immigration inspectors, who was I to be troubled?

Later, after I moved to Arizona, the Department of Motor Vehicles cleverly

omitted the "c" in Getches. I guess I was too busy gawking at the purple shade

of my skin in the photo to notice, or to think about the potential consequences.

Then, last month, I went to get a marriage license.

Dimwitted, you say? Maybe. But in my defense, I might point out I had a lot on

my mind, what with 125 people arriving in my hometown of Boulder for the

weekend. I was taking the plunge, making the leap, sure at last that I wanted to

marry Peter. Ordinarily, I re-think every choice -- when I ask for a scoop of

Coffee Chip, I immediately wonder if Vanilla Swiss Almond would be better.

My parents and friends joke about my affinity for saying "Actually . . . "

because that's what I always say at restaurants before I call the waiter back to

change my order.

But when I strode into the Boulder County Clerk's office with my required

pieces of identification, I was confident. I was serene. I wasn't prepared for the

woman at the counter to inspect my driver's license, study my passport and flat-

out deny us a marriage license two days before our wedding.

A part of me thought it was an omen, a sign that I should turn and hightail it --

fetch all my forms of (false) identities and head for the border. But I snapped

back to reality when she began explaining why she couldn't overlook the

misspellings: "Sorry, we can't do it. Not since 9/11."

She cited Statute 1224, rattled off something about identity theft and kept

mentioning 9/11. I tried to imagine the law's intent -- terrorists waving phony

marriage licenses at grim-faced Border Patrol agents? -- as my eyes welled up.

Instead, I pictured my aunt filling petite sacks with Jordan almonds for the

champagne toast, my mom sprinkling rose petals along the route to the

ceremony site, Peter's mother chopping jalapeños for salsa at the barbecue, the

hike my Dad took with me so we could have time together before he "let me

go." How could 9/11 hold back two people from their intention to love, cherish

and honor each other forever? And what would I say to my guests? "Sorry,

wedding canceled due to Osama bin Laden"?

I told the clerk I had been in and out of the country five times on the passport. I

said Arizona's DMV had made a typo. I begged her to look at my Social

Security card, worn but accurate. She just kept shaking her head.

The office was closing in 25 minutes and Peter was scheduled to be out of town

the next day. There were two options: For some reason, they could perpetuate

the error and issue a license using one of my created names. Or Peter could sign

an affidavit for his part in the transaction and I could come back the following

morning to secure our union, provided that I could find my birth certificate --

which was either in my parents' cluttered basement or my new home in

California, depending on whether you trusted my memory or my mom's.

A hasty, harried search at my parents' house produced the buried treasure and

proved my memory right. The next day -- with my twin sister, Liza, as a witness

-- I raised my hand to take an oath as onlookers wondered if we were taking

part in Colorado's first gay (and incestuous) marriage.

I swore that I was in fact the person as named, that I had never been married

before and something else about not marrying a family member, as my sister

shook with laughter beside me.

But my identity problems are far from over. I've married a Fromen. Now I have

to decide whether to take a name that seems to be the favorite punch line of

every guy who's seen the movie "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." It was mildly funny

when Ferris tried to scam his way into a table at a fancy restaurant by

pretending to be "Abe Frohman, the Sausage King of Chicago." But it's tough to

muster more than a frozen smile when Peter says "Fromen, party of two," and

yet another maitre d' asks if we're any relation to a man who's nothing more

than a figment of Hollywood's imagination.

Then again, I don't know why I'm complaining. I should be used to fictional

names by now.

Author's e-mail:getchesc@yahoo.com

Catherine Getches, a k a Catie, is a freelance writer now living in northern

California.

© 2003 The Washington Post Company