What’s in a name? And what does it mean to change it?

On Tuesday, October 22, 2024, CPR Senior All Things Considered host Nathan Heffel will take the microphone under a new name: Nathan Fernando Frescas. In the following essay, Nathan describes his journey to discovering, accepting, and ultimately revealing a name that is both new and old.

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What’s in a name?

You mean, apart from the paperwork? Or the law? Or (ugh) taxes?

I think, of course, a few things.

Your parents chose Looking for a name for you is probably done by browsing name books, family histories, and photos of loved ones—or, more recently, searching Google late at night.

And they probably tried on every name for size.

They wondered whether it would lead to difficulties later in life, from teasing in the schoolyard to restrictions on future work.

They checked how it rolled off the tongue. They probably even said it out loud in various made-up scenarios.

“Julia, come here.”

“Michael Walter, get down there!”

“Adriana, how could you?”

“Megan, it’s your birthday!”

“Alex, we are so proud of you.”

“Sarah, we love you…”

And after all that, they made their decision your Name.

Then the paperwork. It’s on your birth certificate and your social security card. It’s stuck on endless documents and lists and letters, absence slips from school and get-well cards, invitations and notes from friends (perhaps from a secret admirer or two). You hear it from your loved ones and from the airport intercoms. You say it to strangers who remain strangers and to strangers who become family. You read it about things big and small, meaningful mail and garbage, about diplomas and bills and (ugh, yes) taxes. Until it finally appears on your death certificate.

A name.

So why do I change mine? Why do I have to bother in the middle of this ride?

Courtesy of the Heffel family

I was born in El Paso, Texas in 1979. Shortly thereafter, I was adopted by two of the most loving parents ever, William and Donna Heffel. Both were born and raised in Racine, Wisconsin. My mother’s side was a certified “Century Family” of Racine County, meaning their heritage could be traced back 100 years in the county. (The certificate is still in my grandparents’ house in Wisconsin.) And while my father didn’t have an official certificate, it’s a safe bet that the local Heffel line goes back just as far.

It’s also safe to say that my Dairy State family was as white, German, and Midwestern as it gets.

So I always knew I was adopted. Two white parents and a little brown baby? That’s a pretty hard secret to keep.

My mother even gave me a classic picture book from the 1930s called “The chosen baby” which explained the adoption process. On the one hand, it was well-intentioned and loving. On the other hand, it was typically (even comically) whitewashed like the 1930s. You know it: a little white baby in the arms of a loving white mother in a chiffon dress, the blonde father in a sharp suit and tie.

“You’re a heffel. “You will always be a heffel,” I was told. “And our culture is your culture. Her adoption was just an incident. You are one of us now. Forever.”

They meant well. Intentions aimed at making me feel welcome, ensuring I wasn’t separated from family, and making me feel loved.

But of course, I grew up with very little knowledge of my birth mother or my adoption history — let alone my Latino culture.

Over the years, I’ve made up an elaborate story about my birth mother sneaking across the Mexican border in the middle of the night. She took me to a tiny hospital in El Paso, an operating room with bright green tiles. White doctors in white outfits put me in an incubator. Then she raced back across the border into Mexico – and was never seen again.

I imagined myself connected to the indigenous Mayans of Mexico and truly believed (sometimes to this day) that I was descended from Mayan royalty.

When I was a teenager, parts of my adoption story came to light – so my first name had actually been something else Nathan.

I had discovered a photo deep in a treasure trove of Heffel albums in my parents’ basement. Hidden on the back of one was a picture of a smiling toddler of mine on a picnic bench. I was wearing a white t-shirt and green corduroy overalls with my cute little bare feet sticking out.

On the back it said: “Freddy.”

The handwriting was clearly that of my adoptive mother.

What’s in a lost name?

After spotting the barefoot toddler, I stared closely and longingly at the photo as he smiled at me.

Was that me? My parents had never taken in another child, right?

I asked my mother. With little fanfare (and almost nonchalance), she told me that my birth name was Fernando.

I heard that my adoptive parents changed it to something more American after the paperwork was approved by the court.

Then, in 2015, more about my birth story came to light when my adoptive mother passed away and we secured a safe deposit box while settling her estate.

Inside, neatly folded in an envelope, along with other important documents, were the forms and papers I had given to my adoptive parents after I was born.

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They were created in 1979 by the Texas Board of Health. The staples that held them together had long since rusted, the edges of each page frayed and soft. But the typed words were formal and harsh:

Fernando Frescas – boy.

Born on December 29, 1979.

Placement Background – Ms. Frescas was born and raised in El Paso, Texas and is of Mexican descent. She gave the child up voluntarily. She had no income, residence or resources. She felt she was emotionally unprepared to care for the child. She had a casual relationship with the alleged biological father in the summer of 1979 and didn’t know where he was. Fernando’s biological mother has no known health problems, although she is a heavy drinker.

The formality of it all was difficult to comprehend. Even more difficult was the realization that the elaborate visions of my birth and my birth mother were not true.

She hadn’t stolen from Mexico in the dark of night to get me. She was not a Mayan queen. Instead: She immediately gave up on me; She returned to her daily life in Texas; She was a heavy drinker.

A boy named Fernando Frescas

The name has stuck with me ever since – sometimes front and center and vivid, sometimes just a fleeting thought as I fall asleep.

But lately I couldn’t shake the thought that a more fully formed self is missing from daily life. That a part of me was hidden in some way, waiting.

A name change can be a huge deal. When it happens, it’s usually a celebration, like a wedding. Or sometimes it’s a complete departure from a painful past and a chance to start anew.

For me, it’s about embracing my whole story.

Yes, I’m Nathan Heffel, the son of loving white parents in the Midwest. I grew up taking trips to the Northwoods and learning about my family’s traditions. Traditions that I still hold on to.

Courtesy of the Heffel family.

Yes, I am Fernando Frescas, a descendant of the Frescas family from El Paso, Mexican American with a rich history full of stories I have never heard and traditions I have never experienced.

Suddenly it feels so right and strange and scary to change my name. I know there will be confusion, doubt and maybe even ridicule.

That’s okay.

When I go on air this Tuesday for the umpteenth time in my career, I will be using my name: Nathan Fernando Frescas. And while so many things will be routine, the name will recognize who I am for the first time.

Nathan will continue to honor my adoptive parents, what they chose for me, the love and home they gave me.

Fernando Frescas will honor my birth, my story, my inextricable connection to a world that lives within me.

And even though I never met my birth mother or my birth family, I know that she said my name over and over again, tried it on for size, saw it roll off my tongue, and perhaps decided to honor her family – mine Family.

Now I can appreciate that.

When my birth mother said her last goodbye, she used my name.

When my adoptive parents said hello for the first time, they also used my name.

So what’s in a name?

First of all, everything.