I was not given a name when I was born. Not only am I simply listed as “the infant of” on the birth index, the space on my birth certificate for my name is blank. I was a non-entity with a non-identity. I left the hospital four weeks after my birth, still without a name. I arrived in the arms of my adoptive parents who chose the name I would be known as.

They crowned me “Elizabeth,” the name I wasn’t born to carry. Elizabeth was the name of my paternal grandmother. She died years before I came into the family. They never spoke of her, good or bad. The name didn’t resonate with me, I’m not sure it truly resonated with them. Could they not think of a better name? I went from no name to a name that I had no connection to.

Perhaps I don’t deserve a name.

I reflect on the name my birth mother gave to her next daughter, the one she kept. Would that have been my name?

If a girl is named Kiki or Gladys; Rita or Mabel; Tiffany or Penelope; would she have the same personality, goals, and aspirations?

If a boy is named Philippe or Bubba; RW or Carlton; Aldridge or Bo; would he have the same personality, goals, and aspirations? 

Frankly, would Elvis have been Elvis with any other name?  

Without knowing my heritage or origin, my identity, pieced together by strangers, is inextricably tied to a name.

What’s in a name? Everything.