When I was in fourth grade, a girl in my class was adopted by her new step-father. I remember being a little jealous, because being adopted, in my mind, was something that kids in my favorite stories had in common.
She came to school the next day and announced that her name was changed now, because when you get adopted, you get a new name. We couldn’t call her Katie or Kate now. She was Katherine.
If I had thought about it, I would have thought she was putting on 10-year-old airs. But at the time, what she said was accepted by all of us as a truism. Kids who get adopted get a new name.
Even the teachers and principle remembered to call her Katherine, which is pretty remarkable, seeing as how some of my cousins are retired adults and still called by their toddler nicknames and not their given names.
The following year, Katherine moved around Christmas to some far off country. I think it was Omaha. I remember thinking that she was doubly lucky, to be adopted and then to move to exciting places.
I haven’t thought of Katherine for decades until I woke up suddenly from a sound sleep this morning. I am 55 years old, and just realized why Katie had to change her name, and why all the adults went with it.
In our small, Bible belt town at roll call each morning it would be much better hear, “Forney, Katherine.” than “Forney, Kate.”