When I imagine the name “Eastman” on the lips of people everywhere, it’s because they have just read about my latest book on the New York Times Bestsellers list. Or, at least, because they have just seen my brother Richard’s latest movie. Neither has happened, however, and the only reason that our family name is in the news at all is because it is the name of one of the facilitators of the Big Lie, a January 6th insurrectionist, the lawyer for the worst president of all time: John Eastman—meddler extraordinaire.
Damn.
I guess I never really thought too much about my name—except when it wasn’t my name. When I got divorced, I changed my name from the apparently borrowed married one back to my maiden one. I know some women decide to keep their married surname for the children’s sake, and that makes sense. I don’t recall my decision being grounded in either independence or tradition, but probably because it wouldn’t cost me anything to change it during the actual divorce proceeding; if I wanted to change it later, I would have to pay for it. I might not always have been an Eastman, but I’ve always been a Yankee.
I must have picked up what I know about our name from hearing about it growing up. I always knew we were of Swedish descent and I think I heard that our name in Sweden was Östman and was changed to Eastman when my dad’s grandfather arrived in the US. (Now I wish I had paid more attention to the genealogy conversations . . .) For most of my life, when asked my name or how to spell it, I always quipped: “You know, like Kodak, but without the fortune.” So clever—I probably lost several potential boyfriends that way. I wasn’t related to the much cooler Linda Eastman, either. But other than wishing I was the heiress to the Eastman Kodak millions, I didn’t really think about my name.
Until that dreadful lawyer.
As uncomfortable as it is, though it’s not like I’m going to change my name again. I could seek cover under the name Cindy Farenga, but it’s not likely at this late date. And not being Cindy Farenga doesn’t mean I’m not Angelo’s wife—in fact, in Italy its more appropriate for me to remain Eastman. Women don’t change their name when they marry, but keep their own surname and traditionally, until just recently, the children took the paternal name. In my own nuclear family, everyone has a different last name: besides Angelo and me, my daughters have both taken their husbands’ last names (current and former) and my son has the name he was born with—the same last name as his dad. Our names don’t relate us—our love for each other does.
So, what’s in a name? Right now, in the name Eastman, it’s treason. But I can wait this guy out. He may be tarnishing the name now, but he won’t always be our name’s flagbearer. I’ll get that book out. Richard will make his movie (or Netflix series) and we’ll be cool and have a fortune.
At least my name isn’t Hitler.
I too detest this slippery lying Eastman insurrectionist instigator. How dare he smear this name? It’s up to you to offer a better alternative. Go for it!