Dorothy Elizabeth Fischer Gibbs A Timeline of Names
Birth to August 27, 1986 – For the most part I was called “Elizabeth” by all who knew me.
August 27, 1986 to September 1991 – My brother was born and with him came the name “Sissy.”
September 1991 to Sometime in 1994 – In middle school and junior high, it was cool to have a nickname. I was called “Lizzy Fischer.”
1994 to The Present – Kids in school shortened “Lizzy Fischer” to simply “Fish” or sometimes “Fischer.” The name stuck. To this day my father, mother, brother, coworkers, friends, and even my husband call me “Fish.” It’s so out of control, that I think even some people who have known me for the past five years may not realize my real name is Elizabeth.
2005 to The Present – After several years of absence, I returned to college. No one from my circle of acquaintances knew me at the University of South Alabama. I slipped back into “Elizabeth” again.
– I got married. Now according to the United States government, my name is “Dorothy Elizabeth Gibbs.” I really wanted to keep “Fischer” as a maiden name, but the government will not let you drop your first name. Also, my newly acquired niece and nephew call me “Aunt Liz,” but somehow, my brother and sister-in-law still call me “Fish.”
– Shortly after I was married, my husband started calling me “Weefe’” to be funny. He says it is the “Native American” word for wife or at least that’s what some TV commercial said. He also finds it comical to call me “Feesh” with heavy redneck accent -- like someone from England, Arkansas might say, “Hey, let’s go on over yonder and catch us a mess’o feesh.” By now, I have been called so many names, I really could care less.
If I were born a boy, my father said he'd name me something horrid, like “Imhotep” or “Ramses,” something Egyptian and strong. “A kings name,” he said. He loved Egyptian culture enough to want to name my sister and I historical names, but when Dione and I came out of the womb, the doctor was mistaken. We were girls. Mother was thankful.
They named me “Ariel” because of it's Hebrew roots. “Ariel” was one of the scribes that met Ezra in the temple in the New Testament, and means “Lion of God,” and in other translations “altar” or “light.” My name is also the name of the third moon of Uranus. My sister Dione's name is also one of the many moons of Neptune. I didn't learn of this until fifth grade, while working on a solar system project. “I did that on purpose,” father explained. I forgot to mention that he is an ardent lover of sci-fi films.
As a child, my toddler sister called me “A-yo” because she couldn't pronounce the “r,” and I have been called dozens of other things: April, Erin, AH-ree-ell, and Air-re-ELLE by mistake, but I hardly quibble about pronunciation. For three months once I was “Nicole,” when the editor at a magazine I interned for never bothered to learn my name. As a child I wanted to be named Sarah, Nancy, Anna, and later on another Hebrew name Zeidle.
While being silly, my sister and I decided that our names weren't as pretty or catchy as all the socialites in Vogue. “Ariel” and “Dione” were too plain compared to that of Plum Sykes and Tinsley Mortimer. We found a name generator online, where you could use your real name to create a million other names, including a “socialite” name. With the generator, a boring name like “Ariel” could be “Ariella York.” I liked it enough to use it around Dione, and pretended that “Ariella” was my alter ego.
Years later, we both went shopping at Club Monaco on Park Avenue in New York. I charged my purchase on my credit card, and crumpled the receipt in my purse. When I got back to the apartment that night, I noticed a small, but strangely coincidental mistake, instead of billing “Ariel” they had billed “Ariella” instead.
For most of my childhood, everyone called me Jennifer. The only exception to this were my parents who called me "Jay" or "Sis" and my best friends parents who called me "Jenn".
In high school, I continued to go by Jennifer, sometimes "Little Tosch" by upperclassmen who had my father for a teacher or coach.
When I came to college, and joined a sorority, I began to go by many different names. Everywhere I turned someone was coming up with something new to call me. There were three other Jennifer's besides myself at the time I joined, we all had to come up with something to distinguish ourselves from each other. In the beginning, I was the only one who went by "Jennifer". That quickly became shortened to "Jenn" or "Jenntosch" (said basically as one word).
As my college years are drawing to a close, my close friends and even my family now simply refer to me as "Tosch" or "Toschy". A lot of times that's the only way I'm introduced, and if you refer to me as "Jennifer" some people won't have a clue who you are talking about, and unless I'm in class, half the time I don't even respond to "Jennifer" because I haven't been referred to that since high school.
I was born Aaron Courtney Smock on April 17, 1985 and remained simply Aaron for eighteen years. I have the exact same name as a great uncle on my father’s side, but oddly it wasn’t planned that way. My mom picked the name. She didn’t know of the uncle.
My family has always been very formal in the way of names. My parents and grandparents didn’t do pet names or nicknames aside from the occasional ‘sweetie’ or ‘sugar’. We, my brother and I, didn’t do nicknames for them either. We said ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ and ‘Grandmother’ and ‘Granddaddy’.
For a very short lived year in second grade my teacher referred to me as ‘Smock’ – my last name, short and sweet. Classmates and other teachers never picked it up, but she used it for as long as I knew her. She would call me ‘Smock’ if I were to run into her today.
Elderly Southern women have always used a different pronunciation of my name, but I’m not sure it would count as a nickname. My name is ‘Air-ron’. All my life, I’ve gotten ‘Ay-ren’.
There were no nicknames in high school unless I count homophobic slurs. For one month of band camp, my friend Paige called me ‘Carrots’. I called her ‘Pringles’. We’re still not sure why.
Oddly enough, after eighteen years of not having any nicknames, I came to college and got four.
The first group of friends I began to run with started to call me ‘Tinker-Belle’ which was quickly shortened to ‘Tink’. Supposedly, it was a reference to my extreme gayness. Most of them were gayer than I was, though. It was kind of cute, however, so I didn’t object.
I began to spend a great deal of time with one friend in particular, Dustin. We would pretty much go everywhere together, so wherever you saw one of us, the other wasn’t too far behind. Because of this, we began to be referred to as ‘The Wonder Twins’. I didn’t know who they were, so I looked them up. They were a brother/sister super hero team of the Hanna-Barbera series ‘Super Friends’. DC Comics revamped them for modern audiences. I never was into that crap, but I thought it was sweet.
My first relationship in Mobile called me ‘Babe’. I let it slide, but it always bothered me. It had fat overtones – Babe the pink piglet, Babe the blue ox.
Once I took the stage downtown at the fruit loop, I gained a semi-fan following. I would be outside Humanities and a stranger would approach me. “You’re Miss Kitty, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed, Miss Kitty Cherie. Needless to say, it was my favorite. However, none of these four names have really stayed with me. I don’t see my ‘Tink’ friends that much, Dustin and I aren’t as close, ‘Babe’s’ relationship is long gone, and Miss Kitty only performs once, maybe twice a year.
By examining nicknames, it occurs to me that most are terms of endearment. They are given by close friends, or family. I think that explains why they don’t really stick to me. I try to move around a lot. I don’t really do endearment.
Nine month of anticipation, left her wanting to categorize me by a special name. She wanted to tear apart the painful experience of birthing me and define the essentials of the person she wanted me to become.
When her water broke she wanted to name me Arties; however when I was born the name changed to Cleshonda.
Arties is another name that couldn’t be found on babynames.com; however as I dissected this name I took it to mean a person with ties to art, which in turn would then certainly fit the person that I become. I’m a photographer by nature, and a writer at heart. I’m not as tranquil as a still shot, however I am constantly in motion like the spoken words of poet trying to change the world while ever evolving into something more diverse. With many more word variation in assorted translations I exist as Cliff, Qonda, and Kesneshia’s sister, Letta’s daughter, the girl next door or as my neighbor, Snail, calls toward me from his porch, “My neighbor.” At birth she changed my name, at birth I became Cleshonda.
Somewhere between junior year in high and last semester at Sophomore year at bishop state I became Sean, meaning God is gracious; however most of my family and friends reduce me to sister (Susta) meaning a female offspring with siblings. I have three siblings but only two of them call me susta on a regular basis. At first I opposed to the name because I only wanted to be called Shonda but after I realized that my sister Qonda would never accept any other name for me, I adapted to the name change. Now I always answer, regardless of who says it, because this is all that I’ve become and at this point all I will ever be. There’s a possibility that I never become a mother, and my chances of becoming a wife is far from my reality.
When introducing myself, I say, “I’m Shonda” because it’s easier for people to remember. After a short introduction, I soon become just another chick in the club; just another faceless broad looking for a great time… Until my status change to ‘my home girl, my partner, or my friend’ all of which have different meanings in the hood. All of which phrases hides who I really am, among those who’s not interested in who I’m trying to become. They try to categorize me, by defining my actions… I state proudly “I’m simple and not as extraordinary as some may think.” I smile and say, “I’m Shonda, you’ll always remember me.”
There’s a time when everyone wants to be a rare jewel or the diamond in the rough, at which time the name Cleshonda becomes that rare commodity that I seek… So when attending an important event where I need to be different, I once again become the name that was given to me as I step into a world where naming things are so important and being different is just like being someone else… They announce me as Cleshonda. And I reply, “I’m here”
My, How the Names Go By Angelica is the first of a few names that my oldest sister came up with for me. She had a nickname for everybody. Her best friend in high school, whose real name was Leslie, was dubbed Gurdy by Amanda and Amy never offered an explanation. I haven’t yet determined whether or not I like the fact that all of my nicknames have stories. Aimee decided to call me Angelica because she, being 11 years older than I am, thought it funny when my favorite show was Rugrats on Nickelodeon. Being the manly six-year-old that I was, I would scream at the top of my lungs for her not call me a girl’s name and she only retaliated by purchasing Rugrats stickers and only placing the Angelica ones on random possessions of mine. Beaker was her next venture. When she began college classes, I was seven. It was the first time that she had ever had a lab class, thus the first time she had ever heard the word “beaker.” She thought it was kind of a funny word, so it became my new nickname. I don’t know why it couldn’t have been Julie’s nickname or maybe the family dog’s, but I had learned in that year to let her call me whatever her heart desired because it didn’t matter how hard I fought it. Julie is a year younger than Aimee, and she has called me “Little Brother” ever since I can remember. I screamed at her, too, for not acknowledging my real name, but she didn’t care. I often wondered if Aimee and Jules got together to plot my torture with all this name-calling. It’s only been in the past two years that I have come to terms with “Little Brother,” but only Jules can get away with it. Amos Moses already has too many nicknames for me to add that one to her list. When I was 13 and my voice was changing, Amos Moses thought she would have some fun with that, too. Hence the name Squeaker; another one that I was not fond of. Despite the fact that this was now the third name that Aimee had for me, she never forgot about the other two. She even came up with a song: “Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak-a-beak, beak, beak,” and would say at random times (like in Wal-Mart, for instance), “Squeak to the beak in a weak!” She couldn’t incorporate Angelica into a song with the other two, so it kind of fell to the wayside, but to this day she has not let me forget it. The oddest nickname I’ve ever had to endure was Poopy-bear. My best friend the year I entered high school was an Asian girl named Theresa and one day when I was giving her a hug she said, “Aaaawww, you’re my little poopy-bear.” I asked Reese why she called me that and said because I was squishy when she hugged me. I didn’t tell her that made me self-conscious about being the president of Club Chubb, but when I asked her why not Squishy-bear or Huggy-bear or anything other than Poopy, she said that she like Poopy and that’s how it would be. And that’s how it was for the next year. Tenth grade is when I became really involved in my youth group and started trying to live for God. The youth pastor gave everyone a name. In our group there was Potato, Stump, Twig, Hi-May, Sully, and the list could go on forever. I didn’t get a name until after I got my license. Being pulled over twice in the first two weeks I was driving earned me the name Spoc because it is cops backwards. This is another name that I was not proud of, but couldn’t fight. Moving away for college was not a pleasant experience for me. I’m not the type that can be on my own with no one I know and start all over. It’s just not me. Luckily I had an amazing roommate – Charles. Charlie let me be friends with his friends, and pretty soon he was my best friend. After living at different ends of the state for a year-and-a-half, he’s still my best friend and even came to Mobile for spring break. He is a simple country boy and thought it was amazing that all three of my initials are E. When he was thinking of good name me as a professional wrestler, he thought Triple E. That made him think of Tripole, which meant that would never do. Deciding that was too many syllables anyway, he coined the name Trip-eez. He doesn’t call me that very much, but it’s cool when he does. Chuck came up with Trip-eez in the spring of 2005, and a lot has happened since then. That fall, I went insane and failed all my classes and moved back home to Mobile. I stayed out of school for a year, but went to University of South Alabama’s Chi Alpha Christian Fellowship, anyway. I’m so glad I did. It was only a couple of months after I started making friends in this group that a new name emerged. I was coming out of my insanity and depression at this point, and was hanging out with about ten other people at Gambino’s on a karaoke night. Meagan had written down her song on a piece of paper, but was a little nervous about turning it in to actually sing it. When the waiter walked by, I slipped the request to him and he turned it in for me. When Megs was called to sing, she was incredibly confused as to how they got her request and was upset that she was kind of forced to do it. I confessed that it was me and offered to make it up to her by singing whatever song she picked out for me. “Fancy,” by Reba McIntire is what she chose. I didn’t know the song except for the chorus, so I pretty much just read the words from the screen and then purposely made a fool of myself during the chorus since I’m not a singer anyway. To all those who were there that night, I am known as Fancy. Angelica, Beaker, and Little Brother are names that I now embrace because they remind me of simple times. Squeaker is okay now, too, since my voice isn’t actually squeaking. I think about Reese from time to time and being her Poopy-bear and the transition to high school. Now and then I’ll see someone in the mall who will yell Spoc to get my attention and I’m constantly reminded of my driving record. Trip-eez makes me laugh every time I think about it because it took about an hour for Charlie to come up with. Fancy has sort of fizzled out over the past few months, but that’s okay with me. Fancy is a name that’s better to be remembered than said aloud, I feel like. Eric is a good name, though. I think I’ll stick with that.
Nine month of anticipation, left her wanting to categorize me by a special name.
She wanted to tear apart the painful experience of birthing me and define the essentials of the person she wanted me to become.
When her water broke she wanted to name me Arties; however when I was born the name changed to Cleshonda.
Arties is another name that couldn’t be found on babynames.com; however as I dissected this name I took it to mean a person with ties to art, which in turn would then certainly fit the person that I become. I’m a photographer by nature, and a writer at heart. I’m not as tranquil as a still shot, however I am constantly in motion like the spoken words of poet trying to change the world while ever evolving into something more diverse, with many more word variation in assorted translations. At birth she changed my name, at birth I became Cleshonda.
A couple of friends and cousins call me Sean, meaning God is gracious; however most of my family and friends reduce me to sister (Susta) meaning a female offspring with siblings. I always answer because this is all that I’ve become, and at this point, all I will ever be because there’s a possibility that I never become a mother, and my chances of becoming a wife is far from my reality.
When introducing myself, I say, “I’m Shonda” because it’s easier for people to remember; and easy for me to become just one of the many Shonda(s) when I don’t want to be recognized when I’m not in the club. Lately I’ve noticed that Shonda has become a common name in the hood, but Cleshonda is very rare... So when attending an important event where I need to be different, I once again become the name that was given to me as I step into a world where naming thing: are so important and being different is just like being someone else... They announce me as Cleshonda. And I reply, “I’m here”
APT 137 “ 339? Well, I haven’t really ever talked to him. I’ve been here for almost a year now. I think he was already here. We live downstairs and we sit outside on the steps to his apartment because they are right in front of our door. Whenever we see him coming, we usually walk inside until he has gone up or down the stairs. At first, I wanted to be nice and say hello, but it seemed that he was always on the go, and always in a bad damn mood. He has smiled. I have to say that since I’ve lived in America, I haven’t trusted American men. I’m always scared from reports on the tv and in the newspaper. My mother warned me not to trust anyone, no matter how they smiled….especially if they smiled. “When I first moved here, my sister would call me from the car when she pulled up. She was scared to death of 339, what’s his name?” “Kennon.” “Well, she was scared of Kennon. She would call me and tell me to open the door when he was standing outside, so he would see that someone was watching her enter. We’ve been very careful around everyone here though. He seems harmless enough. The only time I really see him is when he is outside his door, smoking and drinking beer. He sits down up there and reads sometimes, but most of the time he is outside, he is pacing back and forth and talking on his cellphone, or just pacing. My sister will come in startled, saying ‘I was coming through the yard and 339 was pacing back and forth again. He was walking slow and then, all of a sudden, he shot off down the porch. I thought he was coming for me and I prayed that Lord Jesus would take me before he did.’ He would always be walking toward his own door though. Like he had forgotten to turn off his oven or something.” APT 139 “339? Holy shit, how much time do you have? I’ve never lived below anybody like that before in my entire life, that inconsiderate little shit. Who in the hell is up that late, that loud all the damn time anyway? I haven’t lived here four months, and I’ve had to call the apartment and complain about forty times. For some reason they let the bastard stay. “The first week I was here, I had my two daughters for that weekend. I saw him a couple of times and we did the normal nod and smile, as if to say ‘hey neighbor’ without getting too involved in conversation. That Thurs. I woke up to the loudest noise I’ve ever heard, and my two girls were screamin’. I looked out the window and that drunk bastard was lying face-down in my bushes. I opened the door, and had to help him up the stairs. He had fallen off the balcony, trying to climb into his window. He kept mumbling something about losing his keys and he could barely stand. It was pathetic. I felt sorry for him at first, but something like that happened every Thursday night for about three months, and he never seemed to remember. The management of the apartment said they would give him a warning, but the management changed, and I think the new girl runnin it likes him. I can’t see any other reason for why they’d let him stay. You should see that bush. Lately it’s been pretty quiet except for the guitar playing and late-night TV. Every now and then I’ll hear him yelling at somebody, but nobody ever yells back. I think he’s crazy.”
APT 337 “APT 339, Kennon? Yeah, I know Kennon. Not from here though, it took me a long time to figure out that he was my neighbor. I met him a long time ago. He started coming to our college age group at church. He was really nice and fun at first, but when he and Brandi started fighting, he was a major butthole. He eventually stopped coming to church and Brandi broke up with him. For a couple of months, Brandi kept coming, but when the summer came, she wouldn’t even answer any of our phone calls. They were both a little strange if you ask me. Kennon had some crazy ideas about certain things and he always questioned things. One time we talked about religion in general, and he had a lot of negative things to say about it. He kept saying that he believed in God, but that he didn’t like religions. I never understood what he meant. I couldn’t imagine not having a church. “Anyway, it’s kind of funny that we ended up moving right next door to him. For two months, I never knew who it was that was living there, and I kept complaining to the apartment that he was always playing loud music. After I saw that it was him, I remembered that he was recording stuff in his studio thing, so I told the apartment that everything was ok and that I really didn’t want him kicked out. If he got mad at me, I would be scared. He really showed his temper when he and Brandi were breaking up. “A lot of nights I hear him talking on his cellphone. He always has some weird things to say about politics and the president. I never really took him as someone who would be interested in those things. It seems that every long conversation ends in ‘But see, it has to be like that or it won’t work’. I never understand what he’s talking about and I wish he wouldn’t talk so late. The last time I talked to him, he said he was graduating soon. Hopefully the next person will be someone we can bring to the college group.”
Most Africans Americans know the relevance of this name. Kunta is the name of the main character in Alex Haley’s motion picture Roots. The actions of Kunta are driven by anger, pride, and honor. He was brought from Africa against his will and forced into a life of slavery. The white devils had brought him to this hellish place they called America. They had taken his home, his family, his life; but Kunta finds strength is something that they try to take but he refuses to give up, Kunta refuses to forget, his name.
Kunta’s name represents family, strength, lush safaris and breathtaking skies decorated with patterned stars believed to embody the gods, which could only be found in Africa. The gods of the night sky could not come to Kunta’s rescue. Kunta’s weapon of choice was his name, with this he would be armed with the spirit of Africa. He would keep and use his name to redefine his ROOTS.
Modern times, modern pictures, epics such as Roots, The Color Purple, and Amistad have become diluted, unnecessary, taboo, in a society, which deems itself an advocate of the portion of the constitution which states: “all men are created equal (regardless of the name?)”. Naming in the Black community has become somewhat a problematic issue (names, the right to name your children, the right to change your name, the right to go by a pet or nickname). While there are those, people who look to the bible for biblical names, others chose to go against the norm steering away from anything that sounds common (John, Jim, and Sarah). Historically, many Blacks have rebelled against the memories of forced naming by slave owners. But, is this reason enough for senseless naming? Peaches, Chlamydia, Ecstasy (something sweet, a sexually transmitted disease, a potential stage name for a stripper?). Why do we think that there will not be negative connotations attached to our children because of our poor choice of name? My father’s name is Paul, my mother named me Paula after my father. At a young age I was taught the importance of calling people by there correct name and to demand that people called me by my name.
I grew up….. I became aware of racial profiling and the reality of screening processes of application where applicants who had names that were assumed to be of ethnicities other than white were disregarded on the basis of name only. This fact, although not as overtly done as it may have been in the past, still remains true. There are still winners and losers in the Naming Game. We all know the understood rules of society, it is up to you to decide to play by the rules or not. Rightfully, we are free to name our children any name that we can conjure up; but the sad reality of it all is that the saying “a rose by any other name is still a rose” is not always true if your rose is Black.
9 comments:
Dorothy Elizabeth Fischer Gibbs
A Timeline of Names
Birth to August 27, 1986 – For the most part I was called “Elizabeth” by all who knew me.
August 27, 1986 to September 1991 – My brother was born and with him came the name “Sissy.”
September 1991 to Sometime in 1994 – In middle school and junior high, it was cool to have a nickname. I was called “Lizzy Fischer.”
1994 to The Present – Kids in school shortened “Lizzy Fischer” to simply “Fish” or sometimes “Fischer.” The name stuck. To this day my father, mother, brother, coworkers, friends, and even my husband call me “Fish.” It’s so out of control, that I think even some people who have known me for the past five years may not realize my real name is Elizabeth.
2005 to The Present – After several years of absence, I returned to college. No one from my circle of acquaintances knew me at the University of South Alabama. I slipped back into “Elizabeth” again.
– I got married. Now according to the United States government, my name is “Dorothy Elizabeth Gibbs.” I really wanted to keep “Fischer” as a maiden name, but the government will not let you drop your first name. Also, my newly acquired niece and nephew call me “Aunt Liz,” but somehow, my brother and sister-in-law still call me “Fish.”
– Shortly after I was married, my husband started calling me “Weefe’” to be funny. He says it is the “Native American” word for wife or at least that’s what some TV commercial said. He also finds it comical to call me “Feesh” with heavy redneck accent -- like someone from England, Arkansas might say, “Hey, let’s go on over yonder and catch us a mess’o feesh.” By now, I have been called so many names, I really could care less.
If I were born a boy, my father said he'd name me something horrid, like “Imhotep” or “Ramses,” something Egyptian and strong. “A kings name,” he said. He loved Egyptian culture enough to want to name my sister and I historical names, but when Dione and I came out of the womb, the doctor was mistaken. We were girls. Mother was thankful.
They named me “Ariel” because of it's Hebrew roots. “Ariel” was one of the scribes that met Ezra in the temple in the New Testament, and means “Lion of God,” and in other translations “altar” or “light.” My name is also the name of the third moon of Uranus. My sister Dione's name is also one of the many moons of Neptune. I didn't learn of this until fifth grade, while working on a solar system project.
“I did that on purpose,” father explained. I forgot to mention that he is an ardent lover of sci-fi films.
As a child, my toddler sister called me “A-yo” because she couldn't pronounce the “r,” and I have been called dozens of other things: April, Erin, AH-ree-ell, and Air-re-ELLE by mistake, but I hardly quibble about pronunciation. For three months once I was “Nicole,” when the editor at a magazine I interned for never bothered to learn my name. As a child I wanted to be named Sarah, Nancy, Anna, and later on another Hebrew name Zeidle.
While being silly, my sister and I decided that our names weren't as pretty or catchy as all the socialites in Vogue. “Ariel” and “Dione” were too plain compared to that of Plum Sykes and Tinsley Mortimer. We found a name generator online, where you could use your real name to create a million other names, including a “socialite” name. With the generator, a boring name like “Ariel” could be “Ariella York.” I liked it enough to use it around Dione, and pretended that “Ariella” was my alter ego.
Years later, we both went shopping at Club Monaco on Park Avenue in New York. I charged my purchase on my credit card, and crumpled the receipt in my purse. When I got back to the apartment that night, I noticed a small, but strangely coincidental mistake, instead of billing “Ariel” they had billed “Ariella” instead.
For most of my childhood, everyone called me Jennifer. The only exception to this were my parents who called me "Jay" or "Sis" and my best friends parents who called me "Jenn".
In high school, I continued to go by Jennifer, sometimes "Little Tosch" by upperclassmen who had my father for a teacher or coach.
When I came to college, and joined a sorority, I began to go by many different names. Everywhere I turned someone was coming up with something new to call me. There were three other Jennifer's besides myself at the time I joined, we all had to come up with something to distinguish ourselves from each other. In the beginning, I was the only one who went by "Jennifer". That quickly became shortened to "Jenn" or "Jenntosch" (said basically as one word).
As my college years are drawing to a close, my close friends and even my family now simply refer to me as "Tosch" or "Toschy". A lot of times that's the only way I'm introduced, and if you refer to me as "Jennifer" some people won't have a clue who you are talking about, and unless I'm in class, half the time I don't even respond to "Jennifer" because I haven't been referred to that since high school.
I was born Aaron Courtney Smock on April 17, 1985 and remained simply Aaron for eighteen years. I have the exact same name as a great uncle on my father’s side, but oddly it wasn’t planned that way. My mom picked the name. She didn’t know of the uncle.
My family has always been very formal in the way of names. My parents and grandparents didn’t do pet names or nicknames aside from the occasional ‘sweetie’ or ‘sugar’. We, my brother and I, didn’t do nicknames for them either. We said ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ and ‘Grandmother’ and ‘Granddaddy’.
For a very short lived year in second grade my teacher referred to me as ‘Smock’ – my last name, short and sweet. Classmates and other teachers never picked it up, but she used it for as long as I knew her. She would call me ‘Smock’ if I were to run into her today.
Elderly Southern women have always used a different pronunciation of my name, but I’m not sure it would count as a nickname. My name is ‘Air-ron’. All my life, I’ve gotten ‘Ay-ren’.
There were no nicknames in high school unless I count homophobic slurs. For one month of band camp, my friend Paige called me ‘Carrots’. I called her ‘Pringles’. We’re still not sure why.
Oddly enough, after eighteen years of not having any nicknames, I came to college and got four.
The first group of friends I began to run with started to call me ‘Tinker-Belle’ which was quickly shortened to ‘Tink’. Supposedly, it was a reference to my extreme gayness. Most of them were gayer than I was, though. It was kind of cute, however, so I didn’t object.
I began to spend a great deal of time with one friend in particular, Dustin. We would pretty much go everywhere together, so wherever you saw one of us, the other wasn’t too far behind. Because of this, we began to be referred to as ‘The Wonder Twins’. I didn’t know who they were, so I looked them up. They were a brother/sister super hero team of the Hanna-Barbera series ‘Super Friends’. DC Comics revamped them for modern audiences. I never was into that crap, but I thought it was sweet.
My first relationship in Mobile called me ‘Babe’. I let it slide, but it always bothered me. It had fat overtones – Babe the pink piglet, Babe the blue ox.
Once I took the stage downtown at the fruit loop, I gained a semi-fan following. I would be outside Humanities and a stranger would approach me.
“You’re Miss Kitty, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed, Miss Kitty Cherie. Needless to say, it was my favorite. However, none of these four names have really stayed with me. I don’t see my ‘Tink’ friends that much, Dustin and I aren’t as close, ‘Babe’s’ relationship is long gone, and Miss Kitty only performs once, maybe twice a year.
By examining nicknames, it occurs to me that most are terms of endearment. They are given by close friends, or family. I think that explains why they don’t really stick to me. I try to move around a lot. I don’t really do endearment.
The Art of Naming (a contributor's note)
Nine month of anticipation, left her wanting to categorize me by a special name. She wanted to tear apart the painful experience of birthing me and define the essentials of the person she wanted me to become.
When her water broke she wanted to name me Arties; however when I was born the name changed to Cleshonda.
Arties is another name that couldn’t be found on babynames.com; however as I dissected this name I took it to mean a person with ties to art, which in turn would then certainly fit the person that I become. I’m a photographer by nature, and a writer at heart. I’m not as tranquil as a still shot, however I am constantly in motion like the spoken words of poet trying to change the world while ever evolving into something more diverse. With many more word variation in assorted translations I exist as Cliff, Qonda, and Kesneshia’s sister, Letta’s daughter, the girl next door or as my neighbor, Snail, calls toward me from his porch, “My neighbor.” At birth she changed my name, at birth I became Cleshonda.
Somewhere between junior year in high and last semester at Sophomore year at bishop state I became Sean, meaning God is gracious; however most of my family and friends reduce me to sister (Susta) meaning a female offspring with siblings. I have three siblings but only two of them call me susta on a regular basis. At first I opposed to the name because I only wanted to be called Shonda but after I realized that my sister Qonda would never accept any other name for me, I adapted to the name change. Now I always answer, regardless of who says it, because this is all that I’ve become and at this point all I will ever be. There’s a possibility that I never become a mother, and my chances of becoming a wife is far from my reality.
When introducing myself, I say, “I’m Shonda” because it’s easier for people to remember. After a short introduction, I soon become just another chick in the club; just another faceless broad looking for a great time… Until my status change to ‘my home girl, my partner, or my friend’ all of which have different meanings in the hood. All of which phrases hides who I really am, among those who’s not interested in who I’m trying to become. They try to categorize me, by defining my actions… I state proudly “I’m simple and not as extraordinary as some may think.” I smile and say, “I’m Shonda, you’ll always remember me.”
There’s a time when everyone wants to be a rare jewel or the diamond in the rough, at which time the name Cleshonda becomes that rare commodity that I seek… So when attending an important event where I need to be different, I once again become the name that was given to me as I step into a world where naming things are so important and being different is just like being someone else… They announce me as Cleshonda. And I reply, “I’m here”
My, How the Names Go By
Angelica is the first of a few names that my oldest sister came up with for me. She had a nickname for everybody. Her best friend in high school, whose real name was Leslie, was dubbed Gurdy by Amanda and Amy never offered an explanation. I haven’t yet determined whether or not I like the fact that all of my nicknames have stories. Aimee decided to call me Angelica because she, being 11 years older than I am, thought it funny when my favorite show was Rugrats on Nickelodeon. Being the manly six-year-old that I was, I would scream at the top of my lungs for her not call me a girl’s name and she only retaliated by purchasing Rugrats stickers and only placing the Angelica ones on random possessions of mine.
Beaker was her next venture. When she began college classes, I was seven. It was the first time that she had ever had a lab class, thus the first time she had ever heard the word “beaker.” She thought it was kind of a funny word, so it became my new nickname. I don’t know why it couldn’t have been Julie’s nickname or maybe the family dog’s, but I had learned in that year to let her call me whatever her heart desired because it didn’t matter how hard I fought it.
Julie is a year younger than Aimee, and she has called me “Little Brother” ever since I can remember. I screamed at her, too, for not acknowledging my real name, but she didn’t care. I often wondered if Aimee and Jules got together to plot my torture with all this name-calling. It’s only been in the past two years that I have come to terms with “Little Brother,” but only Jules can get away with it. Amos Moses already has too many nicknames for me to add that one to her list.
When I was 13 and my voice was changing, Amos Moses thought she would have some fun with that, too. Hence the name Squeaker; another one that I was not fond of. Despite the fact that this was now the third name that Aimee had for me, she never forgot about the other two. She even came up with a song: “Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak-a-beak, beak, beak,” and would say at random times (like in Wal-Mart, for instance), “Squeak to the beak in a weak!” She couldn’t incorporate Angelica into a song with the other two, so it kind of fell to the wayside, but to this day she has not let me forget it.
The oddest nickname I’ve ever had to endure was Poopy-bear. My best friend the year I entered high school was an Asian girl named Theresa and one day when I was giving her a hug she said, “Aaaawww, you’re my little poopy-bear.” I asked Reese why she called me that and said because I was squishy when she hugged me. I didn’t tell her that made me self-conscious about being the president of Club Chubb, but when I asked her why not Squishy-bear or Huggy-bear or anything other than Poopy, she said that she like Poopy and that’s how it would be. And that’s how it was for the next year.
Tenth grade is when I became really involved in my youth group and started trying to live for God. The youth pastor gave everyone a name. In our group there was Potato, Stump, Twig, Hi-May, Sully, and the list could go on forever. I didn’t get a name until after I got my license. Being pulled over twice in the first two weeks I was driving earned me the name Spoc because it is cops backwards. This is another name that I was not proud of, but couldn’t fight.
Moving away for college was not a pleasant experience for me. I’m not the type that can be on my own with no one I know and start all over. It’s just not me. Luckily I had an amazing roommate – Charles. Charlie let me be friends with his friends, and pretty soon he was my best friend. After living at different ends of the state for a year-and-a-half, he’s still my best friend and even came to Mobile for spring break. He is a simple country boy and thought it was amazing that all three of my initials are E. When he was thinking of good name me as a professional wrestler, he thought Triple E. That made him think of Tripole, which meant that would never do. Deciding that was too many syllables anyway, he coined the name Trip-eez. He doesn’t call me that very much, but it’s cool when he does.
Chuck came up with Trip-eez in the spring of 2005, and a lot has happened since then. That fall, I went insane and failed all my classes and moved back home to Mobile. I stayed out of school for a year, but went to University of South Alabama’s Chi Alpha Christian Fellowship, anyway. I’m so glad I did. It was only a couple of months after I started making friends in this group that a new name emerged.
I was coming out of my insanity and depression at this point, and was hanging out with about ten other people at Gambino’s on a karaoke night. Meagan had written down her song on a piece of paper, but was a little nervous about turning it in to actually sing it. When the waiter walked by, I slipped the request to him and he turned it in for me. When Megs was called to sing, she was incredibly confused as to how they got her request and was upset that she was kind of forced to do it. I confessed that it was me and offered to make it up to her by singing whatever song she picked out for me. “Fancy,” by Reba McIntire is what she chose. I didn’t know the song except for the chorus, so I pretty much just read the words from the screen and then purposely made a fool of myself during the chorus since I’m not a singer anyway. To all those who were there that night, I am known as Fancy.
Angelica, Beaker, and Little Brother are names that I now embrace because they remind me of simple times. Squeaker is okay now, too, since my voice isn’t actually squeaking. I think about Reese from time to time and being her Poopy-bear and the transition to high school. Now and then I’ll see someone in the mall who will yell Spoc to get my attention and I’m constantly reminded of my driving record. Trip-eez makes me laugh every time I think about it because it took about an hour for Charlie to come up with. Fancy has sort of fizzled out over the past few months, but that’s okay with me. Fancy is a name that’s better to be remembered than said aloud, I feel like. Eric is a good name, though. I think I’ll stick with that.
Cleshonda West
Creative Non-fiction II
The Art of Naming
Nine month of anticipation, left her wanting to categorize me by a special name.
She wanted to tear apart the painful experience of birthing me and define the
essentials of the person she wanted me to become.
When her water broke she wanted to name me Arties; however when I was born
the name changed to Cleshonda.
Arties is another name that couldn’t be found on babynames.com; however as I
dissected this name I took it to mean a person with ties to art, which in turn
would then certainly fit the person that I become. I’m a photographer by nature,
and a writer at heart. I’m not as tranquil as a still shot, however I am constantly
in motion like the spoken words of poet trying to change the world while ever
evolving into something more diverse, with many more word variation in
assorted translations. At birth she changed my name, at birth I became
Cleshonda.
A couple of friends and cousins call me Sean, meaning God is gracious; however
most of my family and friends reduce me to sister (Susta) meaning a female
offspring with siblings. I always answer because this is all that I’ve become, and at
this point, all I will ever be because there’s a possibility that I never become a
mother, and my chances of becoming a wife is far from my reality.
When introducing myself, I say, “I’m Shonda” because it’s easier for people to
remember; and easy for me to become just one of the many Shonda(s) when I
don’t want to be recognized when I’m not in the club. Lately I’ve noticed that
Shonda has become a common name in the hood, but Cleshonda is very rare... So
when attending an important event where I need to be different, I once again
become the name that was given to me as I step into a world where naming thing:
are so important and being different is just like being someone else... They
announce me as Cleshonda. And I reply, “I’m here”
APT 137
“ 339? Well, I haven’t really ever talked to him. I’ve been here for almost a year now. I think he was already here. We live downstairs and we sit outside on the steps to his apartment because they are right in front of our door. Whenever we see him coming, we usually walk inside until he has gone up or down the stairs. At first, I wanted to be nice and say hello, but it seemed that he was always on the go, and always in a bad damn mood. He has smiled. I have to say that since I’ve lived in America, I haven’t trusted American men. I’m always scared from reports on the tv and in the newspaper. My mother warned me not to trust anyone, no matter how they smiled….especially if they smiled.
“When I first moved here, my sister would call me from the car when she pulled up. She was scared to death of 339, what’s his name?”
“Kennon.”
“Well, she was scared of Kennon. She would call me and tell me to open the door when he was standing outside, so he would see that someone was watching her enter. We’ve been very careful around everyone here though. He seems harmless enough. The only time I really see him is when he is outside his door, smoking and drinking beer. He sits down up there and reads sometimes, but most of the time he is outside, he is pacing back and forth and talking on his cellphone, or just pacing. My sister will come in startled, saying ‘I was coming through the yard and 339 was pacing back and forth again. He was walking slow and then, all of a sudden, he shot off down the porch. I thought he was coming for me and I prayed that Lord Jesus would take me before he did.’ He would always be walking toward his own door though. Like he had forgotten to turn off his oven or something.”
APT 139
“339? Holy shit, how much time do you have? I’ve never lived below anybody like that before in my entire life, that inconsiderate little shit. Who in the hell is up that late, that loud all the damn time anyway? I haven’t lived here four months, and I’ve had to call the apartment and complain about forty times. For some reason they let the bastard stay.
“The first week I was here, I had my two daughters for that weekend. I saw him a couple of times and we did the normal nod and smile, as if to say ‘hey neighbor’ without getting too involved in conversation. That Thurs. I woke up to the loudest noise I’ve ever heard, and my two girls were screamin’. I looked out the window and that drunk bastard was lying face-down in my bushes. I opened the door, and had to help him up the stairs. He had fallen off the balcony, trying to climb into his window. He kept mumbling something about losing his keys and he could barely stand. It was pathetic. I felt sorry for him at first, but something like that happened every Thursday night for about three months, and he never seemed to remember. The management of the apartment said they would give him a warning, but the management changed, and I think the new girl runnin it likes him. I can’t see any other reason for why they’d let him stay. You should see that bush. Lately it’s been pretty quiet except for the guitar playing and late-night TV. Every now and then I’ll hear him yelling at somebody, but nobody ever yells back. I think he’s crazy.”
APT 337
“APT 339, Kennon? Yeah, I know Kennon. Not from here though, it took me a long time to figure out that he was my neighbor. I met him a long time ago. He started coming to our college age group at church. He was really nice and fun at first, but when he and Brandi started fighting, he was a major butthole. He eventually stopped coming to church and Brandi broke up with him. For a couple of months, Brandi kept coming, but when the summer came, she wouldn’t even answer any of our phone calls. They were both a little strange if you ask me. Kennon had some crazy ideas about certain things and he always questioned things. One time we talked about religion in general, and he had a lot of negative things to say about it. He kept saying that he believed in God, but that he didn’t like religions. I never understood what he meant. I couldn’t imagine not having a church.
“Anyway, it’s kind of funny that we ended up moving right next door to him. For two months, I never knew who it was that was living there, and I kept complaining to the apartment that he was always playing loud music. After I saw that it was him, I remembered that he was recording stuff in his studio thing, so I told the apartment that everything was ok and that I really didn’t want him kicked out. If he got mad at me, I would be scared. He really showed his temper when he and Brandi were breaking up.
“A lot of nights I hear him talking on his cellphone. He always has some weird things to say about politics and the president. I never really took him as someone who would be interested in those things. It seems that every long conversation ends in ‘But see, it has to be like that or it won’t work’. I never understand what he’s talking about and I wish he wouldn’t talk so late. The last time I talked to him, he said he was graduating soon. Hopefully the next person will be someone we can bring to the college group.”
The Naming Game
Kunta
Kunta Kente
Most Africans Americans know the relevance of this name. Kunta is the name of the main character in Alex Haley’s motion picture Roots. The actions of Kunta are driven by anger, pride, and honor. He was brought from Africa against his will and forced into a life of slavery. The white devils had brought him to this hellish place they called America. They had taken his home, his family, his life; but Kunta finds strength is something that they try to take but he refuses to give up, Kunta refuses to forget, his name.
Kunta’s name represents family, strength, lush safaris and breathtaking skies decorated with patterned stars believed to embody the gods, which could only be found in Africa. The gods of the night sky could not come to Kunta’s rescue. Kunta’s weapon of choice was his name, with this he would be armed with the spirit of Africa. He would keep and use his name to redefine his ROOTS.
Modern times, modern pictures, epics such as Roots, The Color Purple, and Amistad have become diluted, unnecessary, taboo, in a society, which deems itself an advocate
of the portion of the constitution which states: “all men are created equal (regardless of the name?)”. Naming in the Black community has become somewhat a problematic issue (names, the right to name your children, the right to change your name, the right to go by a pet or nickname). While there are those, people who look to the bible for biblical names, others chose to go against the norm steering away from anything that sounds common (John, Jim, and Sarah). Historically, many Blacks have rebelled against the memories of forced naming by slave owners. But, is this reason enough for senseless naming? Peaches, Chlamydia, Ecstasy (something sweet, a sexually transmitted disease, a potential stage name for a stripper?). Why do we think that there will not be negative connotations attached to our children because of our poor choice of name? My father’s name is Paul, my mother named me Paula after my father. At a young age I was taught
the importance of calling people by there correct name and to demand that people called me by my name.
I grew up….. I became aware of racial profiling and the reality of screening processes of application where applicants who had names that were assumed to be of ethnicities other than white were disregarded on the basis of name only. This fact, although not as overtly done as it may have been in the past, still remains true. There are still winners and losers in the Naming Game. We all know the understood rules of society, it is up to you to decide to play by the rules or not. Rightfully, we are free to name our children any name that we can conjure up; but the sad reality of it all is that the saying “a rose by any other name is still a rose” is not always true if your rose is Black.
Post a Comment