He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.

I figured something out yesterday: 

The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose.

 

It’s not the first time, I admit, that I’ve had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K.

I even wrote a song about it once.

It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to my mind as a glass of water feels the morning after a heavy night of drinking.

I didn’t know who “Chris” was, at all. No clue. I had no attachment to that sequence of letters. I only knew “Kris,” and I liked him very much…but it was fun to “pretend” to be Chris.

Growing up in Mississippi, you can imagine, I’m sure, how much we get renamed. It seems everyone I know has a nickname that has become so prevalent that they’ve probably forgotten their actual birth names. In my church alone, on any given Sunday, we’d have a Bear, a Rabbit, a Moon, a Boozie, and a Tappy. Until I was in fifth grade, I never knew they had other names at all.

I just assumed they had either simple-minded or unfortunately colorful parents.

I, myself, was no stranger to the onslaught of nicknames. I’ve had several in my life, none of which have really stuck, except to personal friends and family, like Boo, Roose, and Scooter. But they resonate enough times throughout the year, my nicknames, that I’m reminded of this truth: naming things, naming people, naming period is a very powerful, obligating construct.

My ear has been carefully attuned to the euphonic/cacophonous rhythms of what names people call me by today because of this.

The further out from my inner circle they are, the fuller my name gets. People who call me by my whole name, or with prefixes, are people I do not know well. When I hear someone call me Kris Lee, or Mr. Lee, my mind immediately responds to this by forcing me to assume a more political, diplomatic, or professional demeanor. 

It happens instantly; I’m barely aware than I’m doing it.

If people call me simply Kris, I am then mentally cast in a more informal light. I assume I have shared, or disclosed, some Conversational Point, in the past, with this person. I’m not entirely put off guard, or at ease, but I’m not stressed about presentation, as it were. I’m a little more relaxed.

But, then, if you were to hear me on the phone with my family (and by the way, I hate talking on the phone), or if you were with me visiting my family during dinner, etc., you would soon begin to realize that we rarely, unless angry or fervently disagreeing, ever call each other by our names, at all.

Not even in terms of endearment. It simply becomes second-person: Would you get me some salt?, Do you mind checking on the rolls?, Are you liking your job any better?, Goodbye – I love you…etc.

Which raises an interesting question: Why why why why does this even remotely matter?

Wish I had an answer.

OK, wait, maybe I do, sort of.

I think it matters because two opposite things occur. The more of the name you lose, the freer your Identity becomes (i.e., I’m not Kris to everyone, but who is Boo?). And that question leads to the opposite: Do I get to create Boo, or am I subjected to your idea of who Boo is? And if so, then who is Boo?

This is getting ridiculous, I know. But, do you feel less or more You when someone gives you a nickname, or erases your name altogether in lieu of calling you something generic like Baby, Sweetheart, Son, Dear, Honey, Sugar, and so forth?

It puts a whole new light on the “term” part of the phrase terms of endearment.

And, as Fate and Irony would have it, this whole struggle with Identity and names made the news this morning.

Here’s an excerpt from the article:

TAOS, N.M. – Larry Whitten marched into this northern New Mexico town in late July on a mission: resurrect a failing hotel. The tough-talking former Marine immediately laid down some new rules. Among them, he forbade the Hispanic workers at the run-down, Southwestern adobe-style hotel from speaking Spanish in his presence (he thought they’d be talking about him), and ordered some to Anglicize their names. No more Martin (Mahr-TEEN). It was plain-old Martin. No more Marcos. Now it would be Mark.

Actually, the whole thing is worth a good read: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_trouble_in_taos

I mean, what was that man thinking? Names aren’t carelessly given; not to the newborn, and certainly not when you consider yourself using all your wit to rename someone else.

Now, I don’t think the people I know are trying to dictate my personality by giving me nicknames. It’s actually quite flattering. But, as with most flattery, it’s also quite confining because nicknames, renaming, whatever you want to call it, is really how people pigeonhole or categorize a person.

Your name is your definition, whether it’s your real name or not.

I asked U.L. to make sure I wasn’t off the mark. He knows everything, you’ll recall.

Why do we call Bear, Bear?

He looked like a bear, U.L. said.

What about Boozie?

Used to be a heavy drinker.

Moon?

You should know this, U.L. said…and I did. Moon was my uncle. He used to listen to a radio program in which a character named Moon played a mouth harp. As did Uncle Moon. So, you see, then, how the nickname stuck.

Nicknames are often identifiers. My father was called Roose (as was I, as a child, by his father) because we had long legs and strutted, like a rooster, when we ran.

Hey, I didn’t say nicknames were without cleverness.

To be honest, at the end of the day, there are a few that stick for good reason. Either they’re entirely true in their depictions, or they’re just so damn witty that you can’t help but love them.

Once, and only once to my knowledge, has a nickname been both true and witty. After a very long rehearsal, for a very difficult show I was in, we went out for a much-needed drink. We were gossiping about the show, etc., you know how it goes, and I said something painfully funny and ironic, though I don’t remember what it was.

Mike, another guy in the cast, turned to me and said, “You know what Kris Lee…you’re my favorite adverb.”

That one, of course has stuck. 

And though it only really works in the context of the whole story, it’s still sweet.

Related Posts:

• Excuse me, did you just call me a fad?
• “That’s not lying,” he said, “That’s good manners.”
• The very idea of texting your mother…
• Faith for five dollars…and Tennessee Williams.
• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.