What’s In A Name? On Adoption, Loss, and Identity

The other day at work, my colleagues and I were engaging in a restorative justice practice  known as a sharing circle. In this practice, a space is physically arranged in a circle and someone known as the Circle Keeper (re: trained moderator) helps to curate a safe environment (often through icebreaker activities and the co-creation of shared values and guidelines) that allows for intentional dialogue. 

One of the questions that came up during this time was  “where are you from”?  While some answered straightforwardly, many people shared stories that represented a sense of place for themselves. 

The first story that came to my mind was the story of my name. 

Growing up, my “fun fact” used to always be that I had a different first, middle, and last name then what I was born with.  I was born without an “e” in my first name, even though my birth mother intended for me to be called “Karen.” As you might imagine, many people did not know how to pronounce my name growing up, which resulted in most people pronouncing it as it sounded, which was “car-n.”  So when I was adopted, I added an “e” in my name to avoid further confusion (and frustration on my end). 

My last name changed as well when I was adopted, from my original name that I was born with to my adopted mom’s last name.  My mom is of German-descent which is reflected in my very German-sounding last name of “Bauer.” 

And I also changed my middle name when I was seven. As a child, I never liked the sound of my middle name. It was hard for me to pronounce and I always had trouble spelling it. To be very frank, my middle name felt very “Black” to me. And this is something I had an aversion to as a child. If I was going to have a last name that was very white-sounding and already have a first name that was common for white women, I wanted the rest of my name to also sound more white. 

At this moment you may be thinking, “ why did your mom allow you to do this at such a young age??” For one, she did not know the anti-Black reasoning behind me wanting to change my middle name. If she did, I am certain she would have encouraged me not to do it. 

Allowing me to change my middle name also provided me with a sense of agency in the adoption process. The experience of foster care and adoption can often feel like events are happening to you. As a child, I moved between various foster homes without any input into where I would go or whether my sisters could accompany me (we were frequently separated within the foster care system). For my mother, the opportunity to change my middle name was crucial because it allowed me to exert a small degree of control in what otherwise felt like a powerless situation. 

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One summer, I had the privilege of meeting my biological grandmother. Born in Jackson, Arkansas in 1931, she lived to the age of 89 and was survived by numerous grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even great-great-grandchildren! She was the true matriarch of our family.

During our meeting, she disclosed to me that she was the one who had given me my middle name. Upon hearing this, I was immediately filled with shame. This marked the second time in my life that I experienced shame related to my name.

First when I was seven years old, I felt ashamed that my middle name seemed "too Black" while growing up in a predominantly white city and attending predominantly white schools. At that time, I desperately wanted to fit into the white culture that surrounded me. Years later, meeting my grandmother and learning the story behind my name renewed those feelings of shame. Putting a face to my name solidified the decision I had made as a child.

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I hadn't revisited or shared that story with anyone for years. So, as I began to recount it in front of my coworkers, I immediately started to cry. I cried for my seven-year-old self who struggled with acceptance of my Black identity, and for my eighteen-year-old self who felt that I had relinquished a precious part of myself without even realizing it existed. I also cried for my present, thirty-year-old self who was feeling the overwhelming weight of these emotions all at once, in front of my colleagues.

By the age of 30, I believed I had everything figured out—coming to terms with the complexities of being a Black woman raised in predominantly white environments. However, I've come to realize that the weight of adoption can come in waves. Adoption begins with loss, especially in transracial adoption cases. When a child moves from one environment to another, regardless of the circumstances, there's a loss of relationships, identity, and culture. There's also the loss of a name. While a last name might seem trivial to some, it holds profound historical significance. This is particularly true for Black people, whose names were often stripped away and replaced or altered during chattel slavery. So the removal of my last name during adoption and my decision to change my middle name, are ongoing parts of my personal journey that I’m still wrestling with.

Adoption isn't just a legal process that ends when all the paperwork is signed; it’s an ongoing process of self-discovery. At 40, I may still feel the weight of losing parts of my name. At 60 I may still feel the impact of growing up surrounded by whiteness. At 85 I may also still feel the weight of not having a relationship with my biological family during my formative years.  And that is okay.  These feelings do not mean that I am not happy I was adopted or that I do not love my adopted mother (because I am and I do!). Adoption can hold multiple, complicated truths for adoptees. These truths should be welcomed and explored, no matter how uncomfortable they make others feel.  I look forward to and welcome the ongoing evolution of my adoption story in years to come. 

XOXO,

Karen Shandra* Bauer (Also known as Karn Shyrun Griffin)

*Author’s note: I recognize that my current middle name does not necessarily sound white, either. I think a part of me knew that I didn’t want to entirely strip my name of all its Blackness. To me, my original middle name was “Blackity Black” and I just wanted a more digestible form of Blackness in my name (which is, of course, a desire still rooted in White Supremacy and anti-Blackness).