If you are like me, we are in an endless search for distractions. We aim to sap grim realities we face in our lives today. There is no escaping the hustle and bustle of our daily worlds; life moves too fast. She likes to strings our senses along, and it is not so difficult losing track of what’s important. I, sometimes find myself overwhelmed by this, so I run to what helps me best: my memories. And nothing serves me better than the images of my childhood to get me through a tough day. Particularly, the ones that make me laugh; those wrought with funny names—that were and continue to be a big part of who I am. So I hope my two-part coming-of-age anecdote about a “nickname” distracts you long enough to have a laugh—even if it’s just in the slightest—as it does for me. Besides, this story has a moral lesson: Be careful what you wish for. So, it can’t be that bad now.
I am often melancholic about my youth; it helps ease me through the darker moments in my life. And even though they say we should not live in the past, it is there where I find a laugh when I need one the most. I love to laugh, as we all do, but my humor can be fleeting. My humor is much like my mind: whimsical. And it saddens me to find forgotten memories sullied by the dust and cobwebs of time. But despite the slovenly nature of my mind, one memory has always remained untouched by the overtures of time: the appeal for a silly name. And, it is why I can’t help but laugh at my wonder years.
So when I need the comfort of a warm memory, I look back. When I need a laugh, I look back. When I lose hope, I look back.
Childhood is that bittersweet stage I can always fall back for comfort.
Once there, I never seem to tire of a particular account in my life still bright and rich in great nostalgic levity. It has become a safe space. And one thing that is certain with me in this cockeyed recollection of mine: it never fails to impress upon me a time of simpler days. A time when laughter was pure and the absurdity of a nickname meant everything. I was young; nicknames were amusing in a strange and profound way. I know it sounds weird, but it was a reality I didn’t mind so much.
See, I lived in a small town where everyone knew each other. The town did not differ from any other small town: it was quaint and charming. But what you like the most is that small town shelter. They all do; it is their degree of preconceived judgments that makes them a little different.
But one pleasure of small towns lies in its safety. It plays a major part in our development. It allows kids to roam, explore, and be as imaginative as the spacious surroundings before their eyes. And back then, kids were just that—kids. We loved to explore. But we also teased, we laughed, and we had fun. We were in no hurry to grow up. We weren’t pestered with the superciliousness of political correctness.
Again, we were just kids.
This freedom allowed us to reinvent ourselves. We had character—and characters—beyond the imagination. Well, most of us did anyway. I am not suggesting that I had no character—it was that mine was shallow. I wanted my character built for the wrong reasons. And silly names built on that for us back then. With us, a silly moniker brought us closer—it reaffirmed our characters, our friendships. Whether we asked for a nickname or just inherited one, it never seemed to be a big deal to have one. In fact, our characters invited it—but the problem was that it eluded me. So it became a big deal. I wanted to fit in, and without a nickname, I felt less of a member. I wanted to be known by something cryptic because I wanted acceptance; to feel as a fully fledged member. Shallow, right?
I know, it is. I mean, why would I want to fit in with friends I already had? It sounds redundant. But the fact is, I wasn’t trying to fit in, as I was already in—I wanted to belong. In my mind, not having a nickname was a glaring omission in my membership. It stripped away all sense of belonging; and yes, all because of a nickname. Me not having a nickname—when surrounded by friends answering to silly appellations—sort of left me on the outside looking in as if there were certain levels of friendships I was being shunned from. I didn’t like it.
Of course, there was no truth in it, but awkward children often think in ways defined by awkward reasoning.
The act of name-calling is not always proper. The psychological impact of this behavior can be painful, lasting, or life scarring; this, although nicknames are inherent to that phase in our lives. But just to be clear, I don’t condone this behavior; the obsession we had was benign, that’s all. It was never about offending anyone; it was a rite of passage for us, which they hadn’t crossed that bridge with me yet (at least I hoped). Sometimes circumstances would net you that nickname; sometimes a particular given name would do the trick. Since I didn’t have a peculiar name, I guess Providence decided it was time to step in and provide one for me. And let me tell you, she did not let me down.
In my circle of friends, peculiar nicknames were bountiful. To be honest, I don’t remember if we even knew our real names (they knew mine—I didn’t have a label yet!). It was like being naked. But I still remember, as clear as yesterday, some of the names in my group. That list included Freckles, 4 Bones, and Little Bit; the inseparable brothers Cat and Mouse (go figure); and perhaps the shortest and meanest kid in our group nicknamed Flower, and that’s just to name a few. And as I’ve mentioned a few times already, every one of my friends had a nickname except for me. It was difficult feeling slighted for not having a nickname. Odd—yes it was, but I was just a kid. And I can assure you, there was no stigma. I wanted to wear mine as a proud member of the club—even if that club only existed in my head. That’s how much a silly name meant.
But, it would all change for me the day I set foot in the halls of junior high.
By the time of my arrival at junior high, change was in the air. It is natural. We were to forge new friendships, and new alliances were expected. But what never wavered in me was my quest for a nickname.
However, I was no longer in control (not that I ever had control). And even though my old friends were not changing, the dynamics of my group no longer influenced this new stage in our lives. It didn’t mean my aim was not the same, but it was obvious they would not be the catalyst for the renaming I sought.
There was something else now embedded in the echoes of the new halls calling out my name. Which name, I wasn’t sure. But it was something ominous; a discordant sound. I felt something cynical shaking the foundations of my status quo. I felt it upstaging my efforts to inherit a nickname.
It frustrated me I hadn’t earned a moniker yet—but it was okay because it was telling me change was coming.
I don’t remember the early morning details of my first day of junior high; it couldn’t have been any different from most days in the care of my grandmother. If I felt nervous that morning because of the unexpected, I can’t quite recall. But I’m sure I begrudged waking up.
I must have had a quick wash; I probably had coffee with buttered crackers for dipping (yes, I drank coffee); followed by a sermon from a dutiful and loving grandmother. My walk to school was lengthy. Although I was attending a new school, the distance was almost the same as to my previous school, just in the other direction. It was a nice walk. Besides, the gang would converge along the way, so it felt like any other day.
So, when I arrived at school, it didn’t take long to find my class. It took longer standing in front of my classroom; I had to take a moment to compose myself. Although in those days we didn’t “compose” ourselves, we just broke out in hives. But as soon as I shook the jitters out of me, I did the inevitable and irreversible: I stepped into the classroom and promptly wished I could step back.
In a blink of an eye, I was on full display to a mob of teenage angst.
I knew of my shortcomings—and how they sheltered me—but the moment I witnessed the other side of that threshold, I exposed a volatile side of me. I was an awkward mess. In front of me sat about 30 reasons to feel how I did. I had just walked right into a hall of roaring and raging pubescent young adults. The scene was more like walking into Valhalla sans the alcohol—although you would have guessed otherwise by their actions.
So there I stood, frozen by the door, determined to find a familiar face through all the mayhem. I wanted to be quick about it. Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was perpetuate the benign neglect of my legs and invite further scrutiny—that is, if noticed at all. But why take any chances? There had been nothing in my short life that had prepared me for anything like this.
But once my mind cleared my initial bewilderment, I began my search for anyone I knew. The plan was I would lock into their eyes and use them as my guiding light. I figured there had to be someone; it was a small town. And it’s not as if all my friends from prior years disappeared, left behind in a vacuum; we were just scattered in a new system. They were there—somewhere; I had just walked to school with them that morning. So, I thought if I found someone I knew, I could use them as a beacon to navigate my way in that seemingly cold and gloomy room.
It wasn’t long before I spotted two ill-defined faces from the neighborhood. And as foggy as that initial impression of them may have been, their purpose was no less discernible than a lighthouse on a clear night. At that moment, I felt the full measure of my tensions dissipate by a small degree.
It’s funny how seconds can seem like an eternity.
When I recovered from my brief mental fix, I made my way through the chaos. I had a target; all I needed now was a seat. At first, it didn’t look as if there was one. And if there was, to get to it, I had to tread carefully through what had become a gauntlet in my eyes.
As I’m making my way through the challenge, I feared the worst. But I never expected the lack of acknowledgment would be so telling and discomforting. It bothered me. I noticed only vague looks and trivial nods just as paper planes crashed against my skull. It would have been unthinkable to stop in the middle of chaos to find out why I was being ignored, but it was surreal. I expected jeers and taunts, but most of the students showed indifference to my existence. I was irrelevant, but it would have been okay had fate kept it that way.
But, in retrospect, Providence must have already determined the moment was ripe for me to earn that nickname. There was no way of me knowing it would take place during my first class. It was the seventh grade—and what better place to begin one of those little lessons on life than in front of soon-to-be teenagers, right? It couldn’t get any crueler. I do have to point out, we were there to learn math. I wish that’s all we had focused on that fateful day.
The emotional rollercoaster ride was just beginning…
