The Signs: What's in a name?

I enjoy giving nicknames. I really enjoy giving nicknames. It is part of who I am. It contains equal parts of cataloguing, endearment, and entertainment. Most everyone close to me has a nickname. My children are collectively known as The Dumplings based on an early sonogram of them. Individually, they are Skinny Bear and Mare Bear. My mother is Big Red. I have a saying, "Big Red bowls a 300." My husband is The Big Fuss. And, I like to say, "Here comes the Fuss. Here comes the Fuss." I refer to my friend Danielle as Meow-meow because I like to end my conversations with her with a simple "meow". My other friend Kristy is know as Kristy Korea because she is from Korea. Many other nicknames exist: friends, family, co-workers, and even strangers. Some people have been given numerous nicknames. And, then there's me. I have a some nicknames. My family refers to me as The Botch or Botchie. And, many friends have learned to know me as Militia or Militant.

After high school, I attended a near-by Liberal Arts college. I had taken courses there when I was in high school during summers off. And, I felt comfortable there. I knew where the Whippy Dip was. I had concrete memories of watching the fire department do controlled burns while sitting across on the curb, tripping on acid. I knew some locals and a few current students. However, I landed there because I never bothered to do much else. I had expressed an interest in attending a natural science college in Maine, but got confused with admissions. I looked into a school in Colorado, but got confused with admissions. My high school guidance counselor provided no guidance. However, he said something to me I have carried with me every day all my life since he uttered the statement.

"I will read about you some day-- either for winning the Nobel Peace Prize or for ending up in prison."

I set that apart because it truly expresses how apart I was. I will probably refer to this quote throughout my life. I managed to maintain average grades with absolutely no effort. The teachers either loved me or hated me. The ones I viewed worthy of my respect usually tried to offer me encouragement and extra reading (whether it be physics or Greek tragedies). However, they were often as frustrated as I was. Why wouldn't I try harder? Why was I disruptive? Overall, why couldn't I get my sh*t together? The teachers who didn't like me wouldn't even speak to me when I intentionally shouted "hello" to them in the hallway-- even when we were the ONLY two in the hallway. Oh, well, four wasted years.

With my foot in the door to what I viewed as my next four wasted years, I found myself associating again with the misfits, the punks, the stoners, and the teachers. One day in that first autumn, sitting on the rolling lawns of a crunchy leaf-blown campus after a trip to the cafeteria for some rice, I was called Militant. It stuck.

 I only stayed there for three semesters. I knew from day one I had no intention of pursuing a degree in Fine Arts Painting. But, I had to act like I was doing something... anything. Before I left, I asked my boyfriend at the time (my first true boyfriend), why that name? I didn't get it. I mean, it kinda sounded like Melissa. He explained it spoke to the rigidity in my thinking. My overall commitment and conviction to things I believed were true. My inflexibility. My air of self-righteousness. The "my-way-or-the-highway" persona. The "with-me-or-against-me" mentality. I was shocked. How could I be so misrepresented? I was flexible. I listened to others arguments for a while, until I got tired of listening to them being wrong or poorly informed. I was gentle and caring, when I wasn't agitated that people were preventing me from doing what I wanted to do. I was sad. That sadness faded, but the characteristics remained.

A few years later I would return to college. This time to study neuropsychology with a minor in writing. I befriended a guy I used to sell skateboard parts to back in high school. I now refer to Johnny as Whackjob. My daughters refer to him as Uncle Johnny. We took a symbolic logic class together. I loved that class and I liked John. Almost ten years later, he would introduced me to my husband. He calls me Militia. That I can understand, it sounds like Melissa. It's more clever. It still holds some of the same connotations, but on a more acceptable battlefield. I know John wants me on his side in the Theatre of War. Eventually, I would embrace the name. Using it as a moniker, a tag, and a by-line. It has a better ring to it than simply being known as abrupt and abrasive.