(Nick) Names: Love ’em or hate ’em

How many of us have suffered through the stigma of carrying a name that we have not wanted to answer to, much less identify with?

At home, my mother detested her name Petra.  She was named after her baptismal godmother who bequeathed to her all her prized possessions.  “It must have been a bait or some dubious trick,” she surmised.  “Who would want to inherit a name that sounds unpalatable, bitter, and crude even if the most gentlest tone was used?”

Since she could not go to court to change it — Lola wouldn’t have allowed it — she tried to modify it.  “I will only answer to Patricia or Petring,” she said.  To her children, she was always Inay, Mama or Mang so a different name was no big thing.  “Ma, do you realize that your chosen name is even longer than your real name?” I said.  “Huh!” she declared. “Anything is better than Petra.”  When my father founded the Rotary Club in Caloocan  (before it became a city), everyone took to her name, Petring.  Rotary International, in fact, encourages the use of the casual, informal nicknames including those with the suffix -ing, like Susing, Meding, etc. 

I wasn’t spared either.  I went by the name of Washing-yaboo. “You were cuddly with skin smooth as a pearl that everyone wanted to pinch you,” said my aunt.  The nice boo at the end rhymed with coo and that was definitely baby talk, soft and pink as a nursery.  But another name replaced it.  I remember rushing to my father in his study, stumbling and nearly falling on him.  I wanted to show him the paper where I finally wrote my name in full.  “Look, Itay!”  I cried.  “I can write my name.”  My father took the paper and read it aloud, “L-e-t-i-c-a.”  I was shocked.  How could I have missed the second i?  I tore the paper up and left the room looking glum and resentful.  Grrrr!  In a big household, the walls definitely grew ears, hot ears.  In no time, my brothers were teasing me, emphasizing my mistake “Letica, waa-haha.”  Eventually, it was shortened to Tica.  Schoolmates soon tweaked it to Tics and some, using slangy combinations, called me Letua.

My friends also had one-off names. Renita became Nit-nit that metamorphosed to Nite-nite.  We were teaching Catechism to a bunch of street kids who could not keep still.  One little boy pointed at the clipboard that Nit-nit was holding and exclaimed, “Uuuy, Teacher, your name pala is Nite-nite, like in good nite.”

Maurita chose Madge because it sounded hip and groovy.  However, whenever she was back home, she was still plain Itang.  At her first job, an officemate approached her and said, “Why do you smell like a pencil?  From now on, I’ll call you Mongol.”  She huffed and puffed like a disgruntled wolf until she realized that, indeed, there was a reason (and a rhyme) to catch the whiff of wood, lead, and eraser.  There was a pencil-sharpening corner right behind her desk.

With Betty, she was pixie and white as singkamas (turnip), demure and ladylike.  When the hairdo trend highlighted tiny curls and ringlets, what we called as kiss-me’s, it looked so natural on Betty, like the comics character with the same name.  And that’s how she ended up with the name Betty Boop.

And then there was Jebo.  When I was pregnant with him, my husband kept singing Nat King Cole’s French-inspired ballad entitled Je vous ‘aime beaucoup.  That translates to I love you very much in English. “Darling, je vous aime beaucoup, je ne sais pas what to do, you know you’ve completely stolen my heart.” Proof that babies were already loved to high heavens even inside the womb.

After Jebo’s birth, my husband kept repeating the phrase.  “It’s too long,” I said, short of stuffing my ears with cotton balls.  (Although my husband loved to sing, the songs did not love him back.)  And so it was condensed to “Je vous.”  My mother, who spoke with a Latin accent, could not pronounce it.  “Hija, where do you get these incredulous names?  I will call him ‘Je bo.’”

The name stuck.

However, Jebo didn’t like his nickname.  Instead, he insisted on his formal name, Fredrick, and demanded that his teachers and classmates call him Fred, Derick, and Rick, changing his name as the seasons changed.  This left everyone totally confused.  After four years of seesawing and dilly-dallying, he realized that he has the most unique name on campus.  Among the 600 student boarders, not one answered to that name.  And that was how Jebo was resurrected. 

When Jebo was tasked to introduce Homeland Security, the latest, high-tech security arm of the US. Government, post-2001 World Trade bombing, reporters, security details, and flashing cameras temporarily marred his focus.  President George W. Bush walked towards him, and Jebo extended his hand to say,  “Welcome, Mr. President, I am Jebo.”  President Bush shook his hand firmly and exclaimed, “Jebo!  You must meet my brother.”  Not certain what that meant, Jebo simply smiled and turned to his command post.  “Hmm, I wonder why he said that,” he thought.  When the President left, he then realized.  “Of course, his brother’s name is Governor Jeb Bush.”

My five-year-old daughter Francesca or Chessy hastily dropped her schoolbag where anyone could trip over it.  “Mama!” she screamed.  “I can write my name!”  I wiped my hands and read her squiggly penmanship.  “Oh no!”  I laughed.  My daughter spelled her name as Fran-ca-ca, making it a big-time déjà-vu.  Soon, her nickname was re-arranged to reflect this latest mistake.  She now answers to Chess-ca-ca.  And again, in another twist that sounded chewy as peanut butter, Chechie. 

Every name is special.  Don’t you just love the endearing and loco, loony, and nutty-as-a-fruitcake stories behind each one?