My first son’s name followed a family tradition common in many Black households, where we adapt the spelling of nontraditional names to ensure that everyone shares the same initial. His name, Malik, was taken from a popular biblical reference, reflecting a well-known practice in our culture, regardless of religious beliefs. However, when it came time to name my second son, born a decade later, I decided to break from tradition entirely.
“I’ve chosen the name Theo,” I announced to my friends during a pottery painting gathering, perched uncomfortably in a chair that felt far too rigid for my six-month-pregnant frame. Understanding that the opinions of the group of Black mothers meant a lot to me, I was unprepared for the reactions that followed.
“You can’t name him that!”
“Nope, we’re going to help you.”
As suggestions for alternative names starting with ‘T’ flowed in, I suppressed my disappointment. It stung to have a name I loved rejected by those who had yet to meet my son—though I felt a connection with him as I talked to him every day. I made space for my feelings of sadness, recognizing that their intentions were rooted in care. After all, naming a Black child, particularly a Black boy, is not a decision to be taken lightly.
For Black mothers, the process of naming our children carries additional weight. At a basic level, names that are seen as distinctly Black often become fodder for jokes. Both children and adults alike twist them into caricatures to mock or diminish the humanity of individuals they disagree with. Ethnic names that signal anything other than whiteness in the U.S. can lead to discrimination and fear.
Take, for example, former President Barack Obama, whose citizenship was perpetually questioned, with his middle name, Hussein, becoming a focal point of unfounded conspiracy theories. When my oldest son was in high school, he was unaware of his Arabic middle name—a name that I had withheld from him due to my fears that it would lead to further discrimination.
The reality is that name discrimination exists. Candidates with Black-sounding names often find it harder to receive callbacks from employers. However, uniquely Black names can also be empowering. When Africans were enslaved in America, they were often stripped of their identities and given only first names by their owners. Over time, Black people have reclaimed our heritage and culture through names that connect us to our ancestry. Yet, this decision is never straightforward.
Should we embrace our children’s Blackness or their African heritage? Do we envision their name being tossed aside during job applications or being recognized instead? Will they need to constantly correct others who mispronounce or shorten their names? Choosing a name that is distinctly Black is an act of resilience against America’s ongoing racist legacy.
For me, naming my youngest son Theo was about letting go of the anxieties connected to raising a Black son in today’s world. There was nothing particularly dramatic behind the choice; I simply found joy in the name while browsing through a baby name book. In a world that often marginalizes joy for Black people, embracing that joy is a radical act itself.
If you’re interested in exploring more on this topic, check out this insightful post at Home Insemination Kit. For further resources on home insemination, visit Make A Mom and ASRM for comprehensive guidance.
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