Interesting blog title for an uninteresting blog. Perhaps. What if I were to tell you that was a rumour, circulated amongst a group of my friends to inform the uninitiated as to how I came to acquire the nickname Frittata? No, I do not wear pleather and I am not in a band, but people believed the story and a myth started to grow. Who was I to stand in the way of a good story, even if it was about me and a strange encounter with a chicken? I was just young and desperate to make friends. Before you ask, no I would not actually let a chicken lay an egg in my mouth in the name of social advancement. Surely that is a contradiction of terms, but how often do we engage in stupid activities all because we are egged on by our friends? Peer pressure is a hell of drug. But it has got me thinking, less about the stupid things we as humans are hardwired into doing, and more about nicknames. Specifically, the hidden stories and why some stick and others don’t. Now I am not talking the genius ones, like a shortening of a last name, or adding -o or -y to the end of your first name. You didn’t do anything special to acquire that as a nickname. You were just born, your parents named you and at some point, you lived in Australia. The nicknames I refer to always have a great story attached to them. And when you hear that story, you cannot help but laugh and maybe cry a little. Because in that moment you appreciate the craft, intelligence and wit required to encapsulate what often is a complex dramatic comedy, into a single, descriptive word.
The name game
When you think about the subtleties of the truly great nicknames, it’s little wonder that not everyone manages to acquire one. I am not suggesting the nickname-less have lived, simple, uninteresting lives. Far from that. They are probably well-adjusted people who never needed the social approval or disapproval that comes with being christened publicly. In some instances, a person may have suffered through multiple naming-attempts, but for whatever reason, the universe and the people around them, failed to make the name stick. If that describes you, do not be discouraged and do not think that life will be any rosier because you now have a nickname. Not all nicknames are humorous, empowering or uplifting. Great stories aside, some of the labels we give to others, our friends, can be cruel or belittling. Maybe that is not our intent, and maybe we forgot to put ourselves in that person’s shoes (usually breathing a sigh of relief because it isn’t you in the limelight) but you can usually tell a person’s level of comfort with a freshly acquired title. Their face generally screws up like they’re sucking on a lemon, their eyes go black and sometimes a vein pops out of their forehead. Rather than acknowledging this as a sign to ease-off on the name calling, it reinforces to the crowd, this name has to stick. It usually does.
Diverse origins
Over the years, I have been on both sides of the nickname spectrum. Some I have embraced with open arms and others I have fought violently to reject. None of them are that original really except for Frittata, the true origins of which I will get to, that is if you decide to read on. I have also been responsible in the handing out of several nicknames (it’s probably time to recall what I said earlier about craft, intelligence and wit), my favourite of which is Snake. The interesting thing about Snake, is he has no idea why or how he came to be anointed as such. In fact, only five people alive know the true origins of the name given to our slithering, Parseltongue speaking friend. The reasoning is not obvious, but the legend has well and truly shadowed the story, so much so we may never reveal the secret of the Snake. It would be a disappointment to millions. Most of the nicknames I have encountered I have not been involved in (which is why I only mention Snake). Take for instance Nige, so called because according to him Nigel is the worst name in existence. Whitestain was self-crowned, bizarrely, and one can only assume it was because of some over-zealous experiences in highschool. Then there’s Magnum, nothing to do with size, but because the person in question was spotted consuming a box of four magnums whilst walking his Australian bulldog through suburbia. I know a Ratboi, a Snoop Dog, a Spider, a Cicada, a Worm, a Bulldog and a Wookie – in obscure ways they all resemble the animals they were named after. Margherita and Four More is the same person, hint, he loves a drink. I could continue but this is not a point to prove how many people I know, rather it is simply a means to demonstrate how nicknames are as diverse as the people who own them. On a deeper level, and providing you know the origins, a nickname can reveal something more intrinsic about a person than calling them by the name their parents long discussed.
In the beginning
So what does Frittata say about me? And how did I get the name? You’ve read this far so I will try keep it boring for a little longer. To a whole group of mates and associates, for a very long time, that is all people knew me as. A more often than not disappointing egg dish. But the legend of how I came to be called Frittata is known only to a few people. Some people naturally assumed my surname was Frittata. Not exactly I said. Whenever I was introduced to people in this social circle, Frittata was how I would be announced. To this day, I even get wedding invites addressed to Frittata and partner. I’m protecting my wife’s name for her own emotional stability. Although, Mrs Frittata does sound pretty good. It wasn’t long before the rumours started, that’s him, that’s the guy. At parties, people would come up to me and ask if it was true, did I really let a chicken lay an egg in my mouth? I enjoyed playing the game. Maybe I did, Maybe I didn’t. Only you can decide.
The truth
In truth, I was named Frittata after a two-year old boy we witnessed terrorising the beach. It was thirteen years ago. I was on surf lifesaving patrol with two dear friends. Doing our civic duty, we watched in fascination as a stocky kid in a nappy pushed over a girl twice his size, kicking sand in her eyes as a final act of punishment. What a beast. The kid looked untameable. Then he spotted us, trotting in our direction, picking up speed. The boy was a miniature caveman, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Someone was going to cop sand in the eye. There would be tears. Before I knew what happened, he was sitting next me, silently, staring. Smiling. Staring. I looked at him, he looked back. Unblinking. His black eyes staring deep into my soul. I was mesmorised. Another dimension. Boom. I was snapped back to reality by my mates laughing hysterically. The caveboy decided to move in for a closer look. He sat on my knee and stared. And there he remained for what seemed like an eternity.
A legacy
He spoke. But it sounded like he was speaking in tongues. Silence. My mates weren’t laughing any more, they were under the spell. “Frittata, Frittata, there you are”, the spell was broken. Frittata’s mum had found him. And he disappeared. Frittata emerged, 20 minutes later at the top of a sand dune, wearing a cape, staring defiantly at the sea. The breeze fluttering, holding his cape taught. Then, in a puff of smoke, he disappeared from my life, forever. Yet his legend endures. From that day, I was adorned the nickname Frittata. Most people prefer the chicken and egg story, but what came first? Reflecting on this story I realise, It doesn’t matter the labels we give others, give ourselves or have given to us, they do not represent who we are as people unless we allow it to happen. Sure, we can embrace them, but at the core, I have never kicked sand in a girl’s eyes and I certainly am not a person who allows chickens to lay eggs in their mouth, the egg cracking on the way down.