Sometimes I wonder if the first guy to shorten someone’s name was Nicolas. I imagine some stout guy going around his village speaking in shorthand, wielding the world’s most succinct and personal poetry. Maybe he had a stutter, lost the language to communicate his name, or ventured across countries in a time where the only way to get back home was to retrace your steps, pray to a deity, or succumb as permanent traveller in some foreign land. Did word of his talent spread like wildfire? Did his new unchosen family flock desperately to his linguistic wizardry? Did he become the town jest?
I like to imagine he lives on unwillingly, his legacy plaguing 3rd grade classrooms and in the stale locker rooms of high school basketball teams, as an unsung hero of brevity. This once lost and humble man, survives on the breath of every Dick, Beth, and Old Saint, if you celebrate Christmas.
Unfortunately, I’m well aware that the term “nickname” has a more tangible origin. It comes from the Middle English union of “eke” and “name,” otherwise formally known as “an additional name.” I think its funny that nickname is, in itself, a shortened name, but also somehow shorthand for an endearing honeybee?
Even funnier that you can name a man Nick and give him a nickname so Nick’s name becomes his new name, a nickname. Don’t even give the guy an award for collecting trinkets, or he’ll be named Nick, the knick-knack nobleman, and they’ll give him a new nickname like Knick, his new neke-name, or rather, his ekename. Nicolas lives on in all of our hearts, as license plates, The King of Rock and Roll, Cher, as tias and COD scouts, as Starbucks orders and social media handles.
I myself have an informal and more personal way in which others refer to me. I go by Bee bumble, Bumble bee, Bum Bum, Bee, Britt Brat, Britty, Britty Boop, BNF, and unassumingly, Catcher.
I’ve earned many names along my ponderous journey on earth, some affectionate, and some not as much. I think my earliest nickname must have been Britt Brat, it’s origination apparent. I was the child that sneaked around like Nancy Drew to find the most inconspicuous Christmas presents beneath the tree that I would then dart upstairs with, stowed away beneath my Barney nightgown, and into the quiet night of my room. I would unwrap my presents and decide how I would play with them, and where they’d be organized within my closet, what names I’d eventually give to them. Little Britt the brat would expertly tape the wrapping neatly back together around the password journal (photo for reference) and Polly Pocket packaging, and humbly return them, tip toed, in the dead of night.
As I progressed into girlhood, my friends and I would eventually dupe a local boy at a backyard party, in some house that surely did not belong to the host that welcomed us that evening – his parents must have worked in Hollywood. One of the trio of best friends, my earliest comrades, invited us to a party while the other was visiting, and thus we met a boy named Dean Pitcher. With that quick tongue I’ve yet learned to sand down, I told him my name was Brittany Catcher. Giggling and eager to join in the fun, my friend announced that her name was Maggie Sawyer. We changed our names on our Facebooks (back when you would literally photo dump your entire digital camera reel onto an album and *NaMeD iT sOmEtHiNg FuNnY!* XD), so we would look less culprit. They remained that way for years, and nearly 20 years later, that is still her name in my phone.
When I entered the age of wearing a heel as my going out shoe to complement my clutch, I worked as a summer camp counselor between semesters. We weren’t allowed to use our real names at camp, for the kids could only know our silly selves, our Boa, Fox, Robin, Werewolf, and Birdman selves. Each counselor would choose their camp name on Day 1, and forever be called their chosen facade by every screaming child jumping joyously on the rope swing, by every one of our counselor zoo of cohorts. I don’t think I know any of their real names to this day, the stories permanently littered with colorful nicknames. One of my closest friends worked with me at camp; her name still reigns Sapphire, a blue diamond rings on my phone still. I always loved Miss Honey and my enamoration with alliteration begun at reading age, so I decided on Bumble Bee. One of the kids in my group would always reverse the wording of my name, but he expressed it in such an adorable manner that Sapphire would swoon in the early morning before camp and scream, “BEE BUMBLE!” at my groggy eyes with an Americano in hand. We’d like to make sure her daughter knows me only by my official auntie name, Bee Bumble, or auntie Bum Bum for short.
Whether it’s a play on the infamous boop herself, miss Betty, or an acronym with grade-level wit, big nasty fart (BNF being my initials), each name I collect embodies the little bits and bobs of the making of me. They’re monikers for a life playfully lived, of kindred spirits, a life drenched in sarcasm and quip, dripping in whimsy.
Mind The Mess On Mondays 