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ST. PETERSBURG
When she got the letter — it looked all official in its Clerk of the Circuit Court envelope — she ran upstairs to her apartment and ripped it open.
Her stomach fluttered as she read it. She read it again.
Then she raced back down and asked her landlady, "Does this mean what I think it means?"
The landlady read aloud: "Order that petitioner Ana Evelin Zapata is changed to Ana Evelin Almonte — by which petitioner shall hereafter be known."
"Congratulations," said the landlady. "It's official."
• • •
We don't choose our names. They are handed down from our fathers, bestowed by our mothers, usually decided before we are even born. "The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers," said Marshall McLuhan.
First names foreshadow personality: Picture a Peggy, then a Priscilla. Last names reveal where you came from, to whom you belong.
But what if your name doesn't fit? What if it feels like false advertising? Or doesn't say who you really are?
Change it. For $300 — if you petition the court and pass a background check — you can become whoever you want to be.
Last month in Pinellas County, 14 people filed to change their names. Three petitions already have been approved. Including the one filed by Ana Zapata.
That is, Almonte.
• • •
Ana, 24, had never liked her last name. She had always wanted to change it, always knew, someday, she would.
She was born in the Dominican Republic, the first child of Carmen Almonte, a young, unmarried woman. Her mother gave her the father's last name in hopes it would bind the dad and his daughter.
Ana Zapata saw her father only once, but she was so little she doesn't remember it. She was 4 when her mother moved her and her brother to the Bronx. She grew up without her dad but was saddled with his name.
In New York, all the kids thought she was Mexican. They called her "shoe names" because zapato means shoe in Spanish. "They didn't care about the 'a' instead of 'o,' " she said.
Being at the end of the alphabet meant she was always last in line, always the final name called at assemblies.
Even at home, she didn't feel as if she fit in. Her mom was Almonte. Her brother Rodriguez.
"I wanted to feel more connected with my family," she said. "I wish my mom would have made that choice for me. But some things, you just have to grow up and do for yourself."
At 13 she moved to Florida. In high school, when Ana became pregnant with her son, she gave the boy his father's last name because she didn't like her own. Two years later, when Ana graduated with highest honors from Lifeskills Learning Center, she was the last to get her diploma.
She enrolled at Florida Career College, worked at a law office. Met a new man and had two daughters. She gave her girls their dad's last name.
In October, Ana went to the health clinic to have her tubes tied. After waiting three hours, she asked the receptionist what was going on.
"She told me it would be a while, they were taking patients in alphabetical order."
That cinched it. At the court office, she filled out a thick packet of forms. She listed everywhere she had lived, her kids' names and ages, her name now and the name she wanted: her mother's last name, which, conveniently, starts with an A.
Maybe that's why she heard back so quickly. Maybe, finally, on the court's list she was first.
• • •
While her kids are in day care, Ana works at the mall, at — what else? — a shoe store. Just after Christmas, a co-worker congratulated her on her "rebirth."
But Ana doesn't feel like a new person. "I just feel proud," she said. "Weird, happy, better about myself, more connected to my mom. I'm finally who I always was supposed to be."
On her kitchen table, she keeps a pink notebook — 32 places she has to change her name: her bank, driver's license, credit card, the place she rents furniture, her kids' child support checks.
"I was hoping my name would be changed before the new year. I didn't think it would be done in time," she said. "But it is!"
She folded the letter back into its official envelope, closed the pink notebook. She talked about her goals: pay off her credit card, get a new job, maybe move to New York to be near her mom. Then she looked up at the living room wall, where her children's portraits smiled down at her.
"I just want things to be different now, to be better for me and my kids," she said. "Maybe this year we can start over, put all the struggles of the past couple years behind us. Maybe, with my new name, everything will work out."
Lane DeGregory can be reached at degregory@tampabay.com or (727) 893-8825.
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