The question of why many Black people bear surnames that sound distinctly European—names like Johnson, Williams, or Smith—touches on a profound and often painful chapter in history. These “white” last names, as they’re sometimes colloquially referred to, are not mere coincidences but remnants of centuries of enslavement, colonialism, and cultural erasure. For African Americans, Afro-Caribbeans, and even some communities in Africa, these surnames serve as silent testaments to the forced assimilation imposed by European powers. This blog post delves into the historical roots of this phenomenon, exploring how systems of oppression stripped people of their original identities and replaced them with foreign ones. We’ll examine the practices during slavery, the choices made after emancipation, and the broader implications under colonialism. By understanding this history, we can appreciate the resilience of Black communities in reclaiming their narratives, even as these names persist into modern times.
At its core, this naming convention stems from the transatlantic slave trade, which uprooted millions of Africans and dispersed them across the Americas and beyond. Enslaved individuals were dehumanized, their African names discarded as inconvenient or irrelevant by their captors. Instead, they were assigned European-style names, often those of their owners, to mark ownership and erase cultural ties. Post-slavery, the decision to keep or change these names was complex, influenced by family reunification, survival needs, and emerging senses of identity. Today, these surnames carry the weight of history, symbolizing both trauma and triumph. This article aims to unpack these layers, drawing on historical records and personal stories to provide a comprehensive view.
The Legacy of Slavery in the Americas
The story begins with the brutal institution of chattel slavery in the United States and other parts of the Americas, where African names were systematically erased.
Naming Practices During Enslavement
During the era of slavery, which spanned from the 16th to the 19th century, enslaved Africans arriving in the Americas were often stripped of their original names upon capture or sale. These names, rich with cultural, familial, and spiritual significance from regions like West and Central Africa, were deemed too difficult to pronounce or simply irrelevant by European enslavers. Instead, enslaved people were given “Christian” names—biblical or common European first names like John, Mary, or Thomas—to facilitate control and assimilation into a Christian framework. Surnames, if assigned at all, were typically those of the plantation owners, signifying property rather than heritage.
For instance, historical records from the transatlantic slave trade show that upon arrival, Africans were renamed by ship captains or buyers. One poignant example is Oluale Kossula, an African man captured in the 19th century and brought to Alabama, who was renamed Cudjo Lewis by his enslaver because his original name was considered too cumbersome. This practice was widespread; enslavers viewed renaming as a tool to break spirits and sever connections to ancestry. In many cases, enslaved individuals didn’t even have formal surnames during bondage—they were listed in records under their owner’s name, like “John of Smith Plantation.” This dehumanization extended to family units, where children born into slavery often inherited the owner’s surname or were given arbitrary ones.
Civil War records, particularly enlistment and pension documents, offer glimpses into these practices. Much of what we know about Black surnames comes from these archives, where formerly enslaved men enlisting in the Union Army had to provide names, often adopting or formalizing the ones given by their former owners. The lack of literacy among many enslaved people meant that names were recorded phonetically or inaccurately by white officials, leading to variations that persist today. This era’s naming was not just administrative; it was a form of psychological warfare, reinforcing the notion that enslaved Africans had no identity outside of their subjugation.
Post-Emancipation Choices
The end of slavery in the United States with the 13th Amendment in 1865 marked a turning point, granting formerly enslaved people the agency to choose their own names for the first time. This period, known as Reconstruction, saw a mix of retention and reinvention. Many chose to keep their enslaver’s surname, not out of loyalty, but for practical reasons. One key motivation was family reunification: in the chaos following emancipation, with families scattered across plantations due to sales and separations, retaining a familiar surname helped locate relatives. Black people held onto these names hoping that kin, who might only know them by the plantation’s moniker, could find them through newspapers, churches, or word-of-mouth networks.
Other reasons included economic survival. During Reconstruction, many freed people relied on their former enslavers for work, land, or protection amid rampant violence from groups like the Ku Klux Klan. Keeping the name could facilitate these arrangements or avoid drawing attention. For example, Abram Sherrod changed his name to James in 1867 to evade Klan threats, illustrating how name changes were sometimes survival strategies rather than choices of identity. Conversely, some embraced new names symbolizing liberty, such as Freeman or Freedman, or drew inspiration from admired figures like George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, leading to the prevalence of surnames like Washington among African Americans.
Personal stories highlight the emotional depth of these decisions. Journalist Lolly Bowean, in a Chicago Tribune piece, reflects on her surname—likely a misspelling of Bowen from slavery-era records—and her choice to keep it, even in marriage, to honor her fragmented family history. Such narratives reveal that retaining “white” surnames was often an act of preserving kinship bonds forged under duress. Additionally, some names were chosen from newspapers or based on parental lineages, with Black women—previously denied agency—now able to name their children as a form of empowerment. Despite these choices, misconceptions persist that all African American surnames directly come from enslavers; in reality, post-emancipation fluidity allowed for diversity, though European origins dominate due to the foundational erasure.
Colonialism in the Caribbean and Africa
While the U.S. narrative is prominent, similar patterns emerged in the Caribbean and parts of Africa due to European colonialism, where naming was a tool of domination.
Caribbean Surnames
In the Caribbean, the legacy of the Atlantic slave trade mirrors the American experience but with influences from multiple European powers: British, French, Spanish, and Dutch. Enslaved Africans, brought to islands like Jamaica, Barbados, and Haiti between the 17th and 19th centuries, were renamed by their colonial owners. Surnames such as Campbell (Scottish), Dubois (French), or Rodriguez (Spanish) became common, reflecting the colonizer’s heritage rather than the enslaved’s African roots. Unlike Indo-Caribbeans, who arrived as indentured laborers post-slavery and retained Indian names, Afro-Caribbeans were descendants of slaves whose identities were fully supplanted.
The reason for this disparity lies in status: slaves were property, their names dictated by masters, while indentured workers were “free” and could preserve cultural elements. Post-abolition (1834 in British colonies), many kept these names for similar reasons as in the U.S.—family ties and practicality. In places like Trinidad and Tobago, mixed colonial histories led to a blend of surnames, but European ones predominate among Black populations. Historical records from plantations show enslaved people listed under owners’ names, and emancipation brought limited name changes due to illiteracy and colonial bureaucracies. Today, these names evoke the sugar and cotton economies built on Black labor, with movements in the Caribbean pushing for African name reclamation.
African Naming Under Colonial Rule
In Africa itself, European surnames among Black populations stem from direct colonial administration and missionary activities. During the Scramble for Africa in the late 19th century, powers like Britain, France, and Portugal imposed their systems, including naming conventions. Christian missionaries, arriving earlier, encouraged converts to adopt “Christian” names during baptism, often European ones like Peter or Elizabeth, paired with local or adopted surnames. In countries like Nigeria or Ghana (former British colonies), names like Johnson or Williams arose from this indoctrination, associating European names with education and status.
In settler colonies like South Africa or Zimbabwe, Black people working on white-owned farms or in cities often took employers’ surnames for administrative purposes. Freed slave settlements, such as Sierra Leone founded by the British in 1787, brought Black people from the Americas and Caribbean already bearing European names, influencing local populations. Colonial records required Western-style names for legal documents, perpetuating this. Post-independence, many retained these names due to habit, but pan-African movements encouraged reversion to indigenous ones. For example, in Kenya, some adopted Kikuyu or Luo surnames, but European influences linger in urban areas.
Cultural and Social Implications
Beyond history, these surnames shape identity, sparking debates on heritage and assimilation.
Identity and Name Changes
In the 20th century, Black nationalist movements challenged “slave names.” The Nation of Islam, for instance, urged members to drop European surnames, adopting “X” as a placeholder for lost African names, as seen with Malcolm X (later el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz). Figures like Muhammad Ali changed from Cassius Clay, viewing it as a slave name. This reflected a broader push for cultural reclamation, with some adopting African names like Kwame or Aisha.
However, not all embraced change; many see their surnames as part of their unique Black history, embodying resilience. Studies show that names influence perceptions—Black-sounding names can face discrimination in job markets, yet they also foster community bonds. In literature and art, authors like Toni Morrison explore naming as a theme of identity loss and recovery.
Modern Perspectives
Today, genealogy tools like Ancestry.com help trace origins, revealing enslaver connections and prompting reflections. Social media discussions highlight pride in these names while acknowledging pain. Global migration adds layers—African immigrants may adopt European names for integration, perpetuating the cycle. Yet, there’s a renaissance of African naming, with celebrities like Lupita Nyong’o championing heritage.
Discussions on reparations and cultural equity often reference names as symbols of stolen legacy, urging education on this history.
Conclusion
The prevalence of “white” last names among Black people is a direct outcome of slavery and colonialism’s erasures, from forced renamings to post-freedom choices driven by necessity and hope. While painful, these names also narrate survival and adaptation. Understanding this fosters empathy and supports efforts to honor African roots. As societies evolve, perhaps more will reclaim original names, but the existing ones remain vital threads in the tapestry of Black history.