I am not one of those people who knew from age 12 what she wanted to be. In college, I had two inspiring professors of anthropology and their classes started a lifelong fascination. When I graduated from college, I took a job at a publisher in NYC where I had had a summer internship.
I married shortly after graduating, and my husband and I left on our honeymoon using a passport I had obtained as a single woman, in my maiden name (Shipman). We married in 1970, during the rise of the feminist movement. The question whether or not to take my husband's name was a serious choice. I decided to be traditional. 
That meant I had to take my passport in for amendment after the honeymoon. On the crucial page - the one with name, birth date, and photo ---- the Passport Office took a large red stamp and marked VOID VOID VOID all over it. Then someone added a handwritten note: "See page 8." On page 8 was a notation that my name had been changed on a particular date.
I thought I'd get used to his name, but I didn't. I jumped every time people referred to me as Mrs. So-and-so, because that was my husband's mother: a nice lady, but not me. I mis-signed documents and letters repeatedly because I was unused to my new name, which meant I had to type them over (no computers then and I certainly didn't have a secretary to do my typing). I hesitated to identify myself on the phone. For a while, I tried using Shipman as a middle name & my husband's name as a surname, but that got pretty cumbersome. I felt like an imposter.
My husband went to a demanding professional school, working long hours and weekends, while I brought in the meager bacon. After a while, I quit my job and started graduate school in anthropology, with the financial assistance of my parents and later a fellowship. Three years after marrying, my first husband and I divorced.
The brightest ray of light was that I got my own name back. I was Pat Shipman again.
I loved graduate school and did well. I was becoming me, not an extension of someone else, and my future would be determined by me. That me was working hard to become an anthropologist and to get over the sadness and loss of the divorce.
I completed my coursework and researched my M.A. in Ethiopia, a glorious and strange African country. I passed my comprehensive exams well. (Comps are the much-dreaded "hoop" that graduate students in many programs must jump through in order to be admitted to candidacy for the Ph.D. They measure if the student knows the fundamental facts, theories, and arguments of the field.)
Proud of the changes in my life, I took my passport back in to the Passport Office and had it amended again to reflect the divorce. When I got it back, I took a look. On the opening page, it still said "VOID VOID VOID see page 8" but on page 8, there were new notations. The same stamp appeared - VOID VOID VOID - and a small handwritten notation, "See page 10." On page 10 was an office note that my surname had been changed again to Shipman, on such-and-such a date. I breathed a sigh of relief but I didn't think about the larger implications.
I should have. I had learned in anthropology courses how very important names are. Specific customs vary widely, but many groups believe that if you know someone's name, you have power over them. So, for example, Navajo do not refer to other family members by their personal names but by their position in the family, using "son" or "mother" instead of the name. If you act in someone's name, you are borrowing their authority or power: "In the name of the King, I hereby..." In much medieval folklore - and the Harry Potter books -- the devil and magical creatures can be summoned up by those who know their name. Names are so powerful that, among many ethnic groups, a child is not given his or her real name until well after birth to protect the newborn child from curses. And commonly, new names are given to mark entry into a new phase of life.