Honestly, the origins of my name are unknown. I only know that my adoptive dad wanted to name me Asia or Africa or something, which is kind of funny to me because my white dad saw my 23andMe that stated I was Nigerian and European (no Native American or Hispanic as was previously thought or lied about, who fucking knows haha), decided it was appropriate to say, right next to a hulking black woman in the waiting room of an abortion clinic,
“Well I guess we should call you Crayola.” With a head roll, an exasperated sigh, and the longest eye-roll I have ever seen. As he crossed his legs, adjusted his reading glasses, and went right back to idly playing solitare on his phone.
First off, that woman? There was NO way she wasn’t deaf. You have to understand my dad is 70-years-old, and if you have ever met a 70-year-old white man, you know that they aren’t quiet. Secondly, I’m pretty sure I have asked my adoptive mom where my name came from in some form or another over the years, but I found out from my biological grandmother that my youngest sister (whose identity I don’t know, and is living with her father as far as I know) was supposed to be named Jadelyn (jay-DUH-lynn), but either her father had her name legally changed or it could be as simple as changing their minds (even though I have no idea how you go from Jadelyn to Becky), your guess is as good as mine.
That kind of leads me to believe that bestowing a name upon me was a joint effort. I like the idea of that, and it was most likely one of the only times everyone was on the same page.