Why some Black southern women keep their maiden names after marriage

Research shows marital age, race and region become significant factors on a wife's decision to retain or change her surname 

Is a married woman’s surname ever just a name?  image credit: Sirita Render

“As a wedding gift, I got a picture frame from my mother-in-law that said ‘Mr. and Mrs. Courtney’,” Erica Williams recalls, shrugging it off.  

She had not changed her name. 

When Erica Williams, a cultural anthropologist and author from North Carolina, got married at age 34, she chose to keep her name. There was no family meeting called on her behalf, no roundtable debate and no heated argument with her now husband. It was just her quiet decision. “I've done so much with this name. I've accomplished things with this name. I got a Ph.D. with this name. I published a book with this name. I suddenly can’t be Erica Courtney; people won’t associate my accomplishments with that name,” she says. 

The wedding frame, well-intentioned, but incorrect, serves as a subtle reminder: In many Black Southern communities, a woman keeping her surname after marriage is rarely neutral. It brews questions about tradition, respectability, submission and what marriage is supposed to look like.  

Her decision raises a larger question — is a married woman’s surname ever just a name?  

The debate illustrates that for many Black southern women, a surname is a shorthand for respect, self-preservation, inheritance or selfhood. “Depending on the culture of your family or heritage, being a "Jackson" or part of the "Francois" family may mean something more than just kinship,” Vernique explains. These small personal decisions, therefore, carry cultural weight, especially during Black History Month, a time when celebration is tied to lineage, history, identity and names.  

Relational trauma therapist, Vernique Esther Ofili, fills the gap, suggesting it rarely is: “Everything about us, from how we look to what we call ourselves, tells a story. Letting go of a maiden name (even that title sets the expectation that, when a woman is born, that aspect of her identity is temporary) is a portal for many women. It is a trigger for a woman to readjust her alliances to meet the expectations of her new family, whatever they may be.” 

A 2011 survey of 260 women found 81% expressed openness to changing their names after marriage, with education, marital age, race and region as significant predictors. Among women who changed their surnames, 18% kept their birth name as a middle name. Women with advanced education were more likely to retain their surname. African American women, however, were less likely than white women to use their birth name as a middle name. 

Which raises yet another question. What roles do cultural and regional roots play in Black women’s decisions around surnames? 

Dr. Dianne Stewart, a professor of Religion and African American Studies at Emory University and author of “Black Women, Black Love: America’s War on African American Marriage,” answers the why by offering a broader historical chart.  

“After emancipation, formerly enslaved women and men were taught to adopt traditional patriarchal family structures and Christian views of marriage. Evangelical organizations, educators and Freedmen’s Bureau officials promoted these ideals as essential to preparing freedpersons for citizenship,” she says. “Patriarchal heterosexual monogamous marriage was presented as the primary, divinely sanctioned model, with clearly defined roles for husbands, wives and children. Over time, EuroWestern Christian norms became deeply rooted within Black communities.” 

Subconsciously, these practices became the pattern, ritual and social convention. The lens through which many Black women viewed marriage. “Within this framework, Black women were encouraged to embrace ideals of wifely submission and obedience, including the practice of taking a husband’s surname. For many decades — particularly in the South, and well into the late 20th century — surname changing was often regarded as a marker of marital legitimacy, religious virtue and social status.”  

Dr. Stewart explains further: “Although these patterns were not universal, they were reinforced across generations through the Black church, other religious institutions and broader cultural messaging. Even today, many Black women continue to view marriage through the lens of these inherited traditions,” Stewart adds. Just as stories, myths, and knowledge are passed across generations, so too were these expectations. 

After ages of this inherited convention, women like Williams  are making decisions that are quieter but deliberate. “I'm a feminist, and I don't feel the need to buy into the gendered expectation that women are supposed to change their names. Since my name, Erica Williams, was so popular, I started going by my middle name too: Erica Lorraine Williams.”  

The Conversation Moves Online 

Williams is a part of a larger chorus. On TikTok, videos of Black women declaring their decision to keep their names sparked nuanced debate, especially among Southern creators. In one Houston-based thread, a commenter wrote, “To me it’s a respect thing, got married on a Saturday, was changing my name on Monday.”  

For her, adopting a husband’s name is a symbol of commitment. 

Others pushed back: “I have been married for 25 years. No name changed. Nothing wrong with my name. I am keeping it,” One woman wrote. Another added, “Didn’t change mine either. Learned from a friend. Her husband got married twice after her and now 3 women have his last name.”  

Still others framed it even more personally, “I don’t wanna take my man's last name. I don't need to prove I'm married and change everything for no reason it seems. If I had a child … my last name too. My name is part of me.”  

The debate illustrates that for many Black southern women, a surname is a shorthand for respect, self-preservation, inheritance or selfhood. “Depending on the culture of your family or heritage, being a "Jackson" or part of the "Francois" family may mean something more than just kinship,” Vernique explains. These small personal decisions, therefore, carry cultural weight, especially during Black History Month, a time when celebration is tied to lineage, history, identity and names.  

“What modern and educational women are choosing to do by keeping or even hyphenating their names, I think, is a way to signal their gratitude, allegiance and belonging to the families that raised and shaped them into their journey of becoming. When you add on context where a family has daughters or there is a significant loss of an elder, keeping a surname is a decision to honor the legacy of a woman's family of origin,” Vernique says further, framing it psychologically. 

Williams’ decision isn’t isolated from the kind of marriage she envisioned. “My ideologies informed the choice of my partner because my husband lives a certain type of lifestyle. He was a single dad and so has a whole system that enables him to do the whole menu for the week and get all the groceries. Although I cook too, but not as much as him. We have a division of labor that isn't just based on gender, it's based on our strengths and our areas are too.” 

Thus naming followed the same logic: negotiated and considered. “I actually have a friend from grad school who got married, and he and his wife created a new name,” Williams says. “His was [one thing] and hers was [something else], and they combined them into something new. I thought that was cool.” She raised it at home “I asked my husband if it's something he would love to consider, and he said ‘no.’ So I let it go and retained my name.” 

Even when a name is intentionally chosen, the broader community does not always know how to respond. “Our son has a hyphenated name.” Williams notes. “Sometimes in daycare or the school system, people act like they don’t understand it, or they try to drop one name for the other. But I think it’s becoming common nowadays for people to have hyphenated names.” 

A cultural shift is happening, and it is spotlighted in names. Southern Black women like Williams are treating the laid-out script as optional. Names are no longer assumed; they’re negotiated and considered. Defying stereotypes or not. 

In the end, who decides what a name means — the one who bears it or the world that reads it?