PERSONAL ESSAY

My Farewell to Being A Smith

We had a long run, but we needed to part ways

It was time for a change

For the past 22 years, my legal name was Tracy Smith. Recently, that has changed and now it’s time to reflect on what it was like to have the most popular last name in the United States for over two decades.

If you were thinking Jones was a close second, you’re mistaken. Ancestry.com ranked the top six as follows:

1. Smith

2. Johnson

3. Miller

4. Jones

5. Williams

6. Anderson

The honeymoon period

I married into the Smith name in 1998. I kept the name much longer than I did the husband.

At first, I was relieved to score a common name. It could have been so much worse. I don’t think I’d have done well with being Ms. Weiner, Ms. Schmuck, Ms. Cummings or Ms. Cox.

Forgive me, I’m not that mature of a person.

In 1999, I saw the true potential in a name like Smith. Here we were, ticking down to Y2K, when all our computer data might just go … POOF! I thought about my college loans, my credit card debts, my less-than-stellar driving record. Was it possible they’d all disappear into the ether?

Please … please … please …

Naw, of course not. There would be hard copies filed in huge warehouses, right? But wait! How long would it take to go through that mountain of paperwork? With giddy delight, I imagined overworked and underpaid office workers performing disgruntled, rebellious acts of defiance to whittle down the insurmountable stack of paperwork. Would they start by inserting a slow feed of everything Smith into the paper shredder?

I remember that New Year’s Eve well. I was at a house party in a red sequin dress. Everyone was dancing to Prince and partying like it was (it was) 1999. The ball dropped. Everyone kissed and hugged and squealed and chugged. My eyes were on the Dell computer in the corner of the living room.

Was it still alive?

Someone yelled the date had rolled over.

Bastards!

The reality of being a Smith

I didn’t realize all the ramifications of being a Smith until after the divorce and moving from a one-horse-town to Toledo, population of over 287,000. My new suburban neighborhood, Point Place, had a population of about 18,000. I first smelled trouble when I tried to get a library card and was told I would need to pay a fine of over $200 if I ever wanted to check out a book again.

After a whole lot of panicking on my part and head scratching on the librarian’s part, I was told there were three other Tracy Smiths in Point Place, two of which share the same middle initial as mine. Yikes! She told me I didn’t want to know how many Tracy Smiths were in the other parts of Toledo.

New in town, I was eager to make friends. One night in the local tavern, the phone rang. The bartender shouted for one of the customers to answer it, because she was in the middle of stocking the coolers.

The customer answered it and after a moment, yelled, “Tracy Smith! Telephone call!”

I snapped my head around. I was sitting with the only people I knew around here. No one from Michigan would be calling me at a bar.

Tentatively, I said, “Hel … hello?”

“Who in the hell is this?” barked an angry woman.

I pulled the receiver back from my ear and looked at it.

What the heck?

“Uh, Tracy Smith,” I said. It sounded like I was apologizing.

“Very funny, bitch! You better put him on the phone right now or else –”

I hung up on her. My hands were shaking. I relayed to the bartender what had happened and she and the regulars doubled over with laughter.

“I’m so sorry!” she said. Then she went on to explain there was a man who was a regular named Tracy Schmidt, and his wife often called, threatening to kick his ass if he didn’t go home.

Great. Not only did I have to look out for all the Tracy Smiths, but the Tracy Schmidts and their wives, as well.

Navigating as a Smith continued to be difficult. I had my doctor call in a prescription for poison ivy cream. I skittered into the pharmacy, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Itchy, oozy welts covered my arms and legs. It was even on my neck and threatened to crawl up my face. I was miserable. The man behind the window took my ID and handed me a bag. It felt heavy and there was “N/C” written in red pen.

No charge? Why does it say no charge?

I practically ran to my car, anxious to put the ointment on my skin and get some relief. Tearing open the bag, I almost cried when I saw birth control pills and a couple other prescriptions that weren’t mine. When I went back in, the pharmacy tech was red-faced and apologetic. In hindsight, I realize how serious a mistake like this could have been. Depending on the prescriptions that were switched, it could have been deadly.

Another time, I took half a day off work to get my hair cut and highlighted. When I arrived at the salon, one of the other Tracy Smiths was in my chair. Apparently, she had come in as a walk-in and when she said her name, they told her she already had an appointment.

She didn’t argue.

But I wanted to argue.

But she looked mean and I was scared.

I rescheduled.

There are some Smith rules

Here’s some dos and don’ts for all Smiths:

• Don’t hold a reservation under Smith.
• Do expect people to ask you (everywhere you go) if you are related to the Smiths in …
• Don’t hope to get an email address using Smith without expecting to add a whole lot of other letters, numbers, and symbols.
• Do try to ignore all the old, tiresome Smith jokes told by people who think they are innovative and funny.
• Don’t be surprised when people ask your last name, and you tell them, they don’t believe you.

The classic Smith scenario

Everyone who has been a Smith has been through these two scenarios:

A person in some official capacity calls your name off a list and says, “Smith.” Then, when you raise your hand or step forward they say, “Did I pronounce that right?”

I always said, “Um … yeah … it’s Smith, like in Smith.”

Then there’s the people that take your name and say, “How do you spell that?”

And I’d be like, “Um … it’s spelled Smith, as in Smith.”

Takeaway — it was fun while it lasted, but I’m moving on

I married Sam Hill in July. Soon after, I went to get my name changed at the Social Security office. Due to Covid, there was a several week wait to get into the Secretary of State’s office (Michigan’s version of the DMV) to get my driver’s license changed. For about six weeks, I felt I was half-a-Hill and I really wanted to be a whole-Hill.

Finally, it happened, but Sam knew of my attachment to the name Smith. He asked if I was happy to officially be Tracy Hill.

I gave him a kiss and said, “Hill, yeah!”