THEY CALLED ME CRYSTAL.
They were young teens. Just runaways.
Smart enough to cross the country to evade her abusive father and his military draft requirement. Dumb enough to not use protection.
Savvy enough to get jobs and pass as a young married couple. Irresponsible enough to ignore the growing problem inside her – which was me.
Proud enough to speak of the meaningful books they read, the culturally important movies they saw, and the open-minded attitudes they cultivated. Self-absorbed enough to put their needs high above those of their unwanted child.
Resourceful enough to know that adoption was available. Callous enough to instead scout out areas to dump the baby in advance of her birth.
Bold enough to deliver the baby alone, in an attic apartment. Self-centered enough to do so to avoid discovery.
Old enough to know right from wrong. But young enough to put self-preservation above what was right.
Caring enough to have a cat. Selfish enough to keep the cat, and abandon the hours-old baby in a wintry-cold hallway. 
THEY CALLED ME JANE.
Jane Doe. A placeholder name for a tiny anonymous newborn found naked and alone, clinging to life.
They have to put a name on the paperwork, so Jane Doe it was.
They took me from the cold hallway to a warm hospital. I was tiny but strong.
They created a foundling birth certificate legally naming me Jane Doe.
I was medically cleared, and transported to an orphanage. 
THEY CALLED ME BARBARA.
The orphanage staff, mostly nuns and student nurses, were caring people.
When abandoned babies came in, they chose a new name for them.
They knew such children would likely be at the orphanage for a while as legal proceedings took place, and they wanted them to have an identity of sorts.
They named me Barbara, after one of the nurses. A new birth certificate was requested to replace the anonymous Jane Doe paperwork.
I was now legally named Barbara.
THEY CALLED ME HEATHER.
Their first child, a baby girl, had been born prematurely and had not survived.
Three big strong boys followed, but the ache for a daughter remained, and my mom and dad pursued adoption.
My mom loved all things feminine. Surrounded by males, she was thrilled to decorate a frilly pink room and choose a girly name for her new baby.
I know a lot of people feel their names don’t fit them. I’m one of those people.
My name has always felt like an ill-fitting sweater.
I don’t identify with it – although as a nature and gardening buff, I suppose I should be glad to be named after a plant.
But it seems romantic, feminine, demure, refined – none of which are terms those who know me would apply to me.
Then again, Crystal, and Jane, and Barbara also don’t feel like they fit me.
Identity is a common theme, or issue if you will, among adopted people.
And while adopted people certainly are not the only humans to have identity issues or feel like their names don’t fit them, it’s one more star in a constellation of problems that pop up with high frequency in the adopted population.
