“Wormy! Wormy! Come here, Wormy!” I’m seven years old, arms wrapped across my legs like a protective shield, while a group of older kids tease me in the playground with the unflattering nickname that would plague my childhood.
A moniker derived from my surname, Worman (pronounced “War-mon,” not “Worm-man,” although such nuances eluded my classmates in the 90s), the simple act of rescuing a worm from being unceremoniously cut in half would earn me the unfortunate title for nearly a decade. How clever they must have felt when they put two and two together, and how infuriating it was for me. From then on, I hated my rare surname and the joking that came with it.
According to the Internet Surname Database, Worman originates from the old English term for a skilled worker or artisan. One genealogy website goes as far as to link its origins to the kings of Mercia. While there don’t seem to be any famous or noteworthy Wormans in recent history, we’re seemingly an honest bunch, holding down jobs as butchers and painters and labourers in England since the early 1800s.
My name would have faded into obscurity from our family generations ago, had it not been for my grandmother having my mother young and the father’s identity remaining a tight-lipped secret. On my mum’s council estate in the 1960s, illegitimacy was frowned upon, and as her parents were not married, she took her mother’s surname. My own father was absent, and while I was close to his family growing up, I didn’t take his surname either. And so Worman stuck around like a piece of used gum.
I suffered through being a Worman as a child, so when Facebook came along in my teens, I knew it was the opportunity for a self-styled reinvention. I went by Evelyn Rose – my pretty, delicate middle name that garnered compliments in the smoking areas outside nightclubs and drew praise from my first boyfriend’s mum. She said it reminded her of “sweet-smelling perfume”. I basked in my newfound confidence.
After university, resentment towards my surname thawed. There wasn’t a single epiphany, but rather a series of small revelations. Meeting students from different backgrounds helped shift my perspective; I came across surnames far more wonderful and unusual than mine. Laughing with others about the quirks of our names became a surprising source of connection.
But the jokes kept coming when Worman made its appearance once again, this time on my CV. When I took my first job in advertising and started dating a colleague, he was asked when he was going to “sperminate the Worminator”. What I would have done to be called something familiar and ordinary. Not a name that would ignite casual office misogyny.
It wasn’t until I signed up to Ancestry that I finally let go of hating my surname. In the past 100 years, roughly 200,000 surnames have vanished from England and Wales, according to a study conducted by the website. Family trees are littered with surnames that come and go, but mine continues to cling on. People have remarked on its uniqueness and the fact that you don’t hear it every day. Both are true. That feels oddly gratifying. Worman is mine. It’s not “pretty,” but it’s memorable – and it’s survived.
Now that I’m in my early 30s and have given birth to my first child, I’ve become fiercely protective of my surname. Worman, with all its playground torment and awkward office banter, has earned its place. When our son arrived this summer, we decided on a double-barrelled surname, honouring both sides of his heritage. It’s a legacy that could have faded but will now, hopefully, stand the test of another generation.
Evelyn Rose Worman is a writer who has previously worked in advertising
