What’s in a Name? Power, Erasure, and Identity Among Enslaved Women and People of Color

 SDC News One | Long Read

What’s in a Name? Power, Erasure, and Identity Among Enslaved Women and People of Color

By SDC News One Editorial Desk

Names are among the most intimate markers of identity—carriers of memory, lineage, faith, and belonging. Yet for millions of women and people of color during the era of transatlantic slavery, names were not always chosen, cherished, or even stable. They were often imposed, altered, abbreviated, or erased altogether, reflecting the brutal realities of a system that sought control not only over labor, but over identity itself.

To understand the naming patterns of enslaved women is to look closely at the intersection of power and personhood in early America. It is also to recognize how something as seemingly simple as a name can reveal the broader architecture of domination—and resistance.

The Most Common Names: Familiar, but Not Freely Chosen

Historical records—plantation inventories, census rolls, estate documents, and runaway slave advertisements—show that enslaved women were frequently given names common among white populations of the time. Names such as Mary, Hannah, Ann, Jane, Julia, Sarah, Nancy, and Eliza appear repeatedly in archival material.

Other names like Amanda, Charlotte, Priscilla, Kitty, Lucy, Emily, and Ellen were also widely used. These names often mirrored prevailing English or Biblical traditions, signaling the cultural framework imposed by enslavers.

At first glance, these names may appear neutral or even benign. But their prevalence underscores a deeper dynamic: enslaved individuals were rarely granted autonomy in naming. Instead, names were assigned by enslavers, often at birth or upon purchase, reflecting ownership rather than identity.

The repetition of such names across plantations and regions also made individuals less distinguishable in written records—another subtle form of erasure. A ledger listing multiple women named “Mary” or “Nancy” speaks less to coincidence than to a system that did not prioritize individuality among the enslaved.

Shortened and Diminished: The Language of Control

Beyond the names themselves, the way they were recorded reveals additional layers of hierarchy. Enslaved women were often listed using diminutives or shortened forms: Bet (Elizabeth), Nan (Nancy), Sary (Sarah), or Peggy (Margaret).

These truncated names could reflect colloquial speech, but they also signaled informality—sometimes even infantilization. In a society rigidly structured by race and class, the use of shortened names reinforced the subordinate status of enslaved people.

Unlike their enslavers, who were typically recorded with full names and honorifics, enslaved individuals were rarely afforded such linguistic dignity. The absence of surnames was especially significant. Without family names, generational continuity was harder to trace, further severing ties to ancestry and kinship.

Beyond English Names: Classical, Descriptive, and “Day-Based” Naming

While English and Biblical names dominated, other naming conventions also appeared. Some enslaved individuals were given classical names like Venus, Daphne, or Phillis—names drawn from Greek and Roman mythology. These choices often reflected the education or whims of enslavers rather than any cultural connection to the individuals themselves.

In other cases, names were tied to days of the week or circumstances of birth, a practice with roots in West African traditions but often reshaped under slavery. Names like Cuffee (for a boy born on a Friday) or Quasheba (Sunday-born girl) appeared in records, though more commonly among earlier generations or in certain regions.

Descriptive names—sometimes harsh or dehumanizing—also existed. These could reference physical traits, personality, or perceived behavior, further stripping individuals of agency in defining themselves.

Naming as Resistance and Reclamation

Despite the constraints, enslaved women and communities found ways to assert identity through naming practices of their own. Within quarters and family circles, individuals often used names not recorded in official documents—nicknames, African-derived names, or names passed down through oral tradition.

These “hidden transcripts” of naming served as quiet acts of resistance. They preserved cultural memory and affirmed individuality in a system designed to deny both.

Following emancipation, the act of naming—and renaming—became a powerful form of self-determination. Freed people chose surnames, often adopting names like Freeman, Washington, or Jefferson, or reclaiming family names that had been lost. Women, in particular, used naming to assert autonomy over their identities and their children’s futures.

The Gendered Dimension: Women, Naming, and Family

For enslaved women, naming carried additional weight. As primary caregivers, they often played a central role in naming children within their communities, even when official records reflected enslavers’ choices.

This duality—between imposed names and lived identities—highlights the resilience of enslaved women in maintaining familial and cultural continuity. Names spoken within the family could carry meanings, histories, and hopes that official documents ignored.

A Legacy That Endures

Today, the legacy of these naming practices continues to shape conversations about identity, race, and history. The recurrence of certain names in African American communities, the reclamation of African and culturally significant names, and the emphasis on unique or meaningful naming all reflect a long arc of resistance and self-definition.

Scholars and genealogists increasingly turn to naming patterns as tools for reconstructing histories that were deliberately obscured. Each recovered name represents not just a person, but a story—often fragmented, but no less vital.

More Than a Label

To examine the names of enslaved women and people of color is to confront a difficult truth: that identity itself was once subject to ownership. Yet it is also to witness enduring resilience.

Names, even when imposed, became vessels for survival. And over time, they became instruments of reclamation.

In the end, a name is never just a name. It is a record of who had the power to define—and who fought to redefine.