By Susan Kelly
Next to rappers, I’m pretty sure Southerners have the corner on nicknames. I’m not talking “Dukes of Hazzard” or country music Cooters or Scooters or Bubbas or Buds. Ditto Liz-for-Elizabeth or Jack-for-John or Meg-for-Margaret. I’m talking the ones that get acquired or bestowed, usually in high school or college, and then “stuck.”
When it comes to those sorts of monikers, nobody cares about body shaming, ergo my friend Duck, for the way he walks. Or my uncle, known lifelong as Squirrel for his dentist’s-dream buck teeth. An Atlanta pal is known as Dirt because of his grooming, or lack thereof. My frat friend Picture Window, because his hair framed his face just so. Or my square-jawed, bespectacled-since-6 husband, who, innocently brushing his teeth as a new boy sophomore at boarding school, looked up from the communal sink, caught a senior’s eye in the mirror, and has born the nickname Catfish ever since. Because he looks like one.
Nicknames trump passports, birthmarks and bumper stickers for identification purposes, since the origins can be traced like a zip line to character and personality. Hence Zero, for the classmate who had, well, zero personality; somewhat akin to Goober and Simple and Wedge, the latter being the simplest tool known to man, so you can draw your own conclusions about the individuals they were tagged to. Aesop, for the frat bro with a tendency toward lying; Eeyore for the eternally gloomy one; Preacher for the rule-follower. Bullet, which neatly covered both head shape and disposition. (All the references in this article are absolutely authentic. Actual names are omitted to protect myself from libel lawsuits and horn-mad assassins.)
Last-name logic plays into some nicknames, such as Blender, for the last name Waring. You must be of a certain age to understand that one. In fact, you have to be of a certain age to understand that I was called by my last name for a decade because every fourth girl born in the ’50s was named Susan. For a female, it’s sometimes best just to let a name go, without prying for an explanation. Hungry Dog is one. And T-Ball, for example. I just do not want to know. T-Ball’s brother’s name is Re-Ball. That, I get.
The only nickname you legitimately get to select is your grandparent name. (Purists who claim to “wait and see what comes out” get what they deserve.) And when it comes to that category, the hands-down prize belongs to the grandmother friend who dubbed herself Favorite. Wish I’d thought of it first. PS
Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.
