On any given day, my mind is spinning with activity. I’ve got an initiative working here, a white paper due there, and people demanding time in between. I have a tendency to work frenetically, moving quickly from task to task quickly while spending as little down time as possible. It contributes to my preference for hyper-productivity… but it had its downside.
I forget names.
That doesn’t mean I don’t remember people, or I’m so caught up in my own world that names don’t matter. They just sometimes slip into the ether in the moment. So, rather than stammer as I try to clear the fog enough to pull up a name from memory, I rely on a nickname.
Traditionally, nicknames are a form of belonging, an in-group identity that strengthens bonds within social groups. The term itself derives from the Middle English term “ekename,” which literally translates to “additional name.” The earliest recorded use of nicknames traces to that period, as well. Some of them are colorful in their own right, including the first documented use of the f-word to describe a man named Roger in 1086.
Some nicknames are more polite than others. Some foster bonding while others just create angst and discord. Mine run the gamut from complimentary to outright obscene, so I have to be very careful when extracting one from the depth of my consciousness.
WHERE IT STARTED
I owe my penchant for nicknames to my father. He had a nickname for everyone. His brother, who had a habit of telling wild stories, was Uncle Windstorm. One of our neighbors, who always seemed to be recovering from some self-inflicted injury, was A.P. (accident prone). My mother had any number of nicknames, but Honey Pot was his favorite, at least until she learned what it meant.
He rarely called anyone by their name, unless he was very serious about the topic of conversation. I sometimes joke that I grew up thinking my name was Jesus Christ; I heard it enough that I learned to answer to it without question. When he passed away in 1995, much of the memorial reception was spent laughing about stories of the nicknames he had bestowed upon us all, most of which were genuine forms of affection. Most of them.
WHERE IT ENDED
By the time I stood in front of a platoon of soldiers for the first time, my father had passed the torch – his habit was now mine. Even as I worked to learn their names, the nicknames came bubbling to the surface. The mechanic with the spiked blonde hair was Max Headroom. The machinist with the bigger-than-life personality who looked suspiciously like the actor Carl Weathers, became Apollo Creed. Even our battalion adjutant, who bore a remarkable – and disturbing – resemblance to former Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega had a nickname. Thirty years later, the nicknames still flow freely. As always, some are more publicly acceptable than others, but they are all, as I like to say, “on time, on target.”
Recently, though, I came across a Reddit discussion of office nicknames that caught my attention. That led me down the proverbial rabbit hole, where I discovered a treasure trove of nicknames that were so true to form that I wondered if it was my father speaking from beyond the grave.
1. Teflon.
Nothing sticks to Teflon. Nothing sticks to this guy.
2. Alexa.
Knows everything. All you have to do is ask.
3. 007.
Zero job skills, zero motivation, seven bathroom breaks an hour.
4. Decaf.
Looks like the real deal but does nothing for you.
5. E.T.
Just wants to go home.
6. Mastercard.
Always there to take credit.
7. The Motion Light.
Only works when someone walks past.
8. Seaweed.
Floats around aimlessly. Stinks up anything it touches.
9. Lava Lamp.
Looks good, but not very bright.
10. Houdini.
Always disappears when there’s work to be done.
Along the way, I learned that other countries have their own specific brand of nicknames. British and Australian nicknames are particularly interesting. Where else would you find someone called Tolkien (writes long emails) or Perth (three hours behind everyone else). I feel like I’ll have to integrate some of those into my repertoire, since I think I can safely assume no one will know what I mean when I call someone bushranger or Harvey Norman.
