What’s in a Name?

Ask Dewey. Or Michael.

By Maria Johnson

A new acquaintance suggested that we go to an event together.

“You should bring Dewey,” she said.

I looked at her, puzzled.

“You know, your husband,” she prompted.

“Oh,” I said, laughing. “Yeah, OK, but that’s not his name.”

Now it was her turn to look stumped.

“Don’t you call him Dewey?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I confirmed. “But his real name is Jeff. I call him Dewey. But no one else does. Well, except our sons. It’s kind of a pet name.”

If she thought about rescinding her invitation, she was graceful and did not.

And, by the way, Dewey and I had a great time with her and her husband, who, for some reason, she called by his real first name.

Seriously, I get why people address each other by their given names. That’s what names are for. When parents give their kids a name, they presume that’s what other people will call them.

And most people do.

Which is fine.

Heck, I call most people by their given names — when I can remember them.

But people I’m fond of or I know really well? Mmm, not so much.

That’s why I had to laugh when I read about Nikki Haley’s husband.

His real first name is William.

Most people call him Bill.

But when Haley met him, she told him he didn’t look like a Bill.

She asked him what his full name was.

He told her William Michael.

She said he looked more like a Michael, and from then on, she called him Michael.

I totally get it.

And for what it’s worth, I think she’s right. Look at his picture. The dude is a complete Michael.

Apparently, everyone else thought so, too, because from then on, other people called him Michael, too.

Which is cool. Other people can use a person’s new name, especially if it’s a new public name.

Which is not the same as a new private name.

Example: Michael, public name.

Dewey, private name.

I mean, you can call Jeff “Dewey” if you want to. But I doubt he’d answer. And if he did, I’d be crushed.

It’s complicated.

One thing I’ve learned: Often, there’s a namer in the family. This is one of the first things that Dewey (that’s Jeff to you) and I realized we had in common. We were the namers in our families. Maybe because we’re both first children, and while being a firstborn comes with a lot of pressure, it also carries some privileges.

Therefore, Dewey/Jeff renamed some of his family members Maude, Lay-Otee, Carico, Sheep Pup and Deo Bahee.

My family included Lil’ Greek, Shrimp and Dossie, aka Dosito Mikhail Yakovich. 

Hey, it was the Cold War era. And yes, I said the whole name every time I used it. Much to his chagrin.

That’s the thing about renaming people in your immediate family. They don’t necessarily have to like their new monikers. They just have to tolerate them.

If I were completely honest, I’d admit that renaming is a wee flex, a mini Declaration of Independence that says, “I’m not calling you what the rest of the world calls you.”

But even more important, new names are expressions of fondness, closeness and a unique shared history.

Take the example of a dear friend and her brother, who are very close.

Privately, he addresses her as “Fool,” based on a family story that resembles a fever dream.

She calls him “      hole,” emphasis on the “       .”

In her contact list, he’s listed as “A-hole,” but her cell phone’s voice assistant pronounces his name “A-holey.” So my friend tells her phone to “call A-holey” when she wants to talk her to baby brother.

Is that love or what?

Inside my own family, I call Jeff “Dewey,” which was derived from the boys calling him Dad, which morphed into Doodad, which was shortened — ta-da — to Dewey. Who else would know that?

He calls me Sweetch, a form of Sweetie.

Awww.

We have multiple pet names for our sons, most of which we use in private, partly out of respect, partly because we’ve received withering looks for using them in public.

Take the time I summoned one son, now a New Yorker, by his pet name when he was walking too fast for us down the crowded sidewalks.

“BADOODIE! HOLD UP!” I hollered.

Apparently being hailed as Badoodie by your mom on the streets of Brooklyn is not a hip thing.

Neither is calling a grown man Ta-Ta in front of his girlfriend.

In other words, context is everything. You have to modulate nicknames according to who’s present.

Renaming people outside your family is different beast all together.

In these cases, a degree of playfulness and acceptance is needed, or the name won’t stick, even if you apply it with affection.

I’ve been lucky in that department. I think of some of my earliest pals: Gurr, Beck, Mishur, Limpy, Kince and Polly. None of those were their given names, but if I called them on the phone today, I dare say they’d brighten at the sound of those tags.

Later came Betho, Goof, Conchita, Der Lovely, Lyd, DK, Fash, Little Boy and others.

Today, you might hear me refer to Special K, Peegs, Little Debbie, Weez, Cootie, Rev K or Queenie Bee.

As for me, I’ve answered to many names in my lifetime: Goof, Conchita and Fash (often nicknames are reflexive, applying to both parties), along with Moom, M.J., Mojo, Mo, M, Mahrear and Mish.

While some of them are more attractive than others — “Mahrear” reflects a former colleague’s delight at how our boss’s Virginia accent made my name sound like his backside, as in, “That writer is a pain in Mahrear” — all of them make me smile because they tickle memories of the people, the stories and the closeness we’ve shared.

And ain’t that the name of the game?  OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry magazine. Email her at
ohenrymaria@gmail.com.