If you’ve dated me, it's very possible you have a nickname.
In fact, if there has ever been the slightest hint of a romantic connection between you and I (and this includes just me thinking you’re hot from afar), the Vegas bookies would put the odds on the truth being that myself or one of my friends has granted you an alternate title, and you are referred to as such when you are not around. Perhaps there was a time when you and I were hanging out, and I came out of the kitchen into the living room where you sat, opened my mouth to address you, stopped short and restarted. Remember? This confused you at the time, and allow me to clear up the mystery now. See, I was about to slip and call you Church Boy instead of Dave. Jim Gimme Summy instead of Jim. Coke Can instead of, well, we’ll leave that one alone.
The first memory I have of this dates back to the eleventh grade, but I can’t imagine there weren’t instances before that. I won’t relay this earliest of examples, because quite frankly it does not reflect the kinder, gentler person into whom I have since evolved. Or should I say devolove? (BTW, there is only one person on the entire planet who just might get that last sentence, and if she did she may have just fallen out of her chair laughing.) At that time code names were essential, for we were back in the dark ages, the other significant B.C. (Before Cell phone), where instead of firing off a quick text or email, communications were written on actual paper and extreme care was required to ensure that the integrity of the chain of custody was maintained at all times. In the event that these written communications (notes folded into paper footballs) were intercepted by the opposition (teachers) or rival rebel factions (competing girl cliques), their origins must be indiscernible and the message unintelligible. Plus, who are we kidding, nicknaming was just so damn fun. Wrong, mean, and bad karma-inducing, yes. But giggle-till-we-drop, let’s-go-make-another-mix-tape fun.
In college the nicknaming continued, even though the need or care for unshakable anonymity evaporated. The primary goal here seemed to be simple identification, a necessity at a school of 15,000+ students where Matts and Mikes and Ryans and Robs ran rampant. Where names such as Swimmer Hottie 1, Swimmer Hottie 2, and Frat Boy George scored low with the French judges for creativity or humor, the German judges gave them high marks for utility, and as such we all knew exactly about whom someone was referring at any given time. This is not to say there were no exceptions, as admittedly titles such as Trench Coat Mafia and Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle were thrown around. But seriously. If you knew a guy named Kyle, and he incessantly wore a t-shirt that listed the top ten reasons to become a chemical engineer, wouldn’t you slap a nickname on that shit too?
I also think it’s worth pointing out here that the nicknaming in college was not reserved exclusively for romantic affiliations, real or desired. No, no, I would like it to go on the record that I did not have a thing for or with Kyle, Top 10 Reasons To Become A Chemical Engineer T Shirt, Kyle. No, no aaaaaand no.
If I had a prayer of growing out of the nicknaming habit after college, it soon went to hell in a pie basket, for after graduation I joined PADA, an organization with a long, rich love affair with nicknames, though most names are the out in the open variety as opposed to behind the back (exception, I hope: Porn ‘Stache). Actually, a more accurate statement is that PADA serves as an example of the nicknaming trend that is very common in the sport of ultimate frisbee, a phenomenon that I *think* I recall being documented in Ultimate: The Greatest Sport Ever Invented By Man (a quick, amusing read that is one big inside joke for ultimate players). Anywho, Edgely, the Philadelphia ultimate mecca, is a place where you will get blank stares if you mention that Andrew, Chris and Kevin are on your Spring League team this season, but you’ll see a nod of full understanding by referring to Smart Guy, Goose and Bulb. Yours truly is caught up in this nicknaming mess as well, as just last night I overheard Wise Cassie referring to me by my parental-given name and then having to clarify by calling me Khop. After all, who the hell is this Kathleen person? A small part of all this nicknaming comes, I think, from a need for easy identification, as this sport flashes a middle finger to conventional sporting norms, reserving things like numbered jerseys for only the more serious players. But mostly it is indicative of a solid truth of ultimate: we're odd, and we enjoy that fact very much, thank you.
I will say that while this trend makes for good banter and an amusing social scene, it can be horridly problematic. If you get to know someone by a nickname and then begin to date said person, at some point a transition is necessary, whereby you continue to use the appropriate nickname in public, but privately his or her real name is used, for, you know, the facilitation of intimacy ‘n stuff. I’m not gonna lie, there are many things I don’t mind being called, but the Very Last Thing I want to hear in the throws of passion is, “Oh Khop....”
Menfolk out there, take note.
So why all the male nicknaming? Damned if I know. It definitely has nothing to do with how much or how little I like the guy, as in thinking through the men who have and have not received nicknames along the way, there’s no direct correlation. Men I have been crazy about have had names bestowed upon them, and men I’ve been “not so much” about have gone without. The vice versa of both is also true. I could go all Psych 101 and theorize that I’m objectifying them, avoiding intimacy, yada, yada, yada, and who knows. Maybe there’s some truth to that. Mostly I think I’m just quirky and bizarre. But we knew this already, right? In any case, it's not meant to be derogatory. Well, most of the time anyway, heh heh....
Someday, I will stand at the pearly gates and Jesus Christ himself won’t let me into heaven until I tell Him what His Khop-given nickname is.
I swear, Jesus, the only thing I’ve ever called you is my homeboy.
Say my name!
khop
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