The first violence that affects a newborn baby is the name that he or she or them never chose themselves. There will be much more after that: potty training, learning to walk, talk, compulsory schooling, et cetera. It is best to change a first name later in life. My sister did, but it only helped a little. I run into her every year, just this week at the Javaplein in Amsterdam. She sits there forever being 29 years old, I walk up to her expectantly, it's now or never, and as I hear myself talk I know it's in vain.
Me: "Do you know me. We know each other, don't we?” and I know the answer the moment I ask the question. No. A pretty young woman, ethnically mixed, with a head of curly hair and some freckles on her nose. Elsie. My sister. Already 30 years dead. Later in life she called herself Tilasmi, a name given to her by the Baghwan. Still later I was allowed to say Elsje again, and I still do that in my mind.
Sister was also adopted, she was Surinamese/Curacaos/Indonesian and Dutch. A moksi, a mix. Was calling her 'Elsje' necessarily a colonial act of my parents? I do not believe it. I know a very Surinamese lady called Els. 'Kwame' is not for everyone. Parents appropriate a child, especially culturally, and I wouldn't know how else to do it.
Now I read Trouw columnist Babah Trawally, and I do so more often, usually with pleasure. This week he wrote: “You cannot adopt a black African child and then call her Wietske or Tjitske. This is like writing a scientific book without citing the source.”
Would it? Raising a child has nothing to do with writing a science book. 'Cultural appropriation', to put it in good Dutch, is even a necessity in education. “Cling, bonding,” my therapist used to yell.