I have nickname envy. Looking back, every male gendered person I have ever known has a nickname (or streetname). A month ago, my sixteen year old son, James, moved back home after spending a year in Alberta, where he lived with his dad. Over the course of the last month, I have come to realize that nicknames are not just reserved for the exploited victims showcased on ‘The First 48’, super sport-stars (The Great One, Pele, The Babe, Mean Greene…) and oxy-moron type aliases (i.e. ‘Slim’ for a fella with a 52” waist). James, has socialized with ‘Try-Hard’ and ‘Strike-Out’ named because of their inability to flirt effectively with girls, ‘Stringer’ who plays the guitar and ‘Blister Pack’ because of an unfortunate freakish below the belt type problem. James seems to have entirely dropped his first name and simply goes by, ‘Deeker’.
What is the common thread that ties generations of men together through ridiculous monikers and slang designations? And what about these terms gives men carte blanche to tell the truth to one another without being perceived as offensive or brash? Why have women been expected to reach out in an embrace whilst raising their voices 2 octaves exclaiming, “Ohhhh… Nancy, the house smells fabulous and you look great! Have you been working out?” while our male partners (and presumably equals) punch each other in the arm cursing, ‘Hey, Hammer you ever going to mow your lawn you fat, lazy bastard?” Why do men get to have cool nicknames and use blue language when women need to lie about the perceived sizes of one another’s back-sides and fake heightened decibel-level excitement over fancy new matching square salad and dinner plates? It just does not seem fair.
My nine year old daughter, Meg, was recently invited to a birthday party for a boy she does not particularly like. When given the option to attend the party or not, Meg decided to go… however the homemade card she wrote contained the following text, “Yoon-ster: Cake is my favourite thing in the world. MMMMM… yummy cake. Hope you don’t hate all your presents.” When I read the card, I (supportively) asked Meg why she wrote what she did… her response was simple: “I don’t want to lie about why I decided to go to his party. That would be rude and lying is wrong.” When I asked about the ‘Yoon-ster’ salutation, she told me, “That’s what I call him”. I believe her wide-open truth about her not-so- sweet reasons for wanting to go to his party was directly related to her willingness to use his nickname in the address.
More than once, I have been accused of being less than courteous in the way I talk to people. Rarely, is what I say intended to be disagreeable and typically its women who have the tendency to misinterpret my tone or words as abrasive. I don’t consider myself a nasty person, I simply lack the ability to employ the widely accepted female ‘sugar coat’ approach to conversation.
James has inspired me to look at the cause of this unrest and in my view, it all boils down to nickname use. I wonder if my co-workers would tell me what they really think if I start calling them by nicknames. For example: “Hey, Spinster (named for her self- described inability to find a husband) do you have an extra stapler? I can’t find mine.” Instead of the regular response of, ‘sure I have an extra stapler, I don’t mind a bit’, I wonder if the use of a seemingly offensive nickname (Spinster) would garner the response she would likely prefer to offer, “Yes Slapdash, I do have a stapler but you can’t have it. Tidy your pigpen office and find yours.” In this instance, Spinster would be correct; my office is messy and it’s not her responsibility to enable my unkempt habits. Conclusion: insulting nickname tags are somehow disarming. The seemingly thoughtless manner in which men have tossed around offensive adjectives, are in fact a deliberate olive branch offering peace and opening the proverbial door to invite honesty and truthful dialogue under the guise of cheeky banter.
No longer should women have to site P.M.S. as the only accepted reason to be clear in their feelings. Men will no longer check their watches or Blackberry calendars to determine the date when their wives and girlfriends ask them if they have really been watching SPIKE TV all day instead of changing the oil in the car like they promised… because the ‘ask’ will be prefaced with a nickname and therefore will be determined to be totally unrelated to lady-exclusive hormones. “Hey Homer, you going to get your ass off the couch and change my oil, or what?”
I have girl parts and I deserve a nickname. After carefully considering my interests and personality, I think an appropriate name for me is ‘Forks’. I am quite fond of saying ‘I’d rather jam a fork in eye than [go to a baby shower] , I shamelessly read (and loved) the Twilight saga which was set in a town called Forks, and if I ever had a breakfast diner I’d call it, ‘The Fork n’ Spoon’. Please consider this blog formal notice of my desire to be referred to as ‘Forks’ from this moment on. Thank-you.
