What's in a nickname?

In sixth grade, Peter Salzberg arrived at Friends' Central from Pilgrim Gardens and became friends with Richie Ulmer and me. "USLTO," he called us: the Ulmer-Salzberg-Levin Treaty Organization.

Peter, who had already been tagged "Pedrofsky" by his father, dubbed Richie "Elmersky" and me "Levinsky"— later abbreviated to "Visky" and, by the time we reached Upper School, "Visk." "Visk" became my favorite nickname of all time. "Slim," "Laverne" and "The Hippie Lawyer" are the other contenders that come to mind.

I haven't lived in Philadelphia for more than 40 years, and consequently I haven't been referenced in that manner by anyone on any subsequent acre of my life. But when I return to Friends' Central next month for my 50th reunion, I expect to be hailed as "Visk" still.

Elsewhere, I was "Robert" through eighth grade. Then I was sent to overnight camp for the first time and returned from the Poconos, having undergone rites of passage toward manhood that included learning to shave with a safety razor, realizing elbows were as important to basketball players as Converse high-tops, and accepting the gospel of our counselor that while it was difficult to get Jewish girls to go down, "Once they go down, they stay down." I also came back "Bob."

My 'slave name'

I clung to that name proudly. "Robert was my slave name," I was known to remark in subsequent consciousness-raised eras. Its use distinguished family from friends, and now"“ my father, uncles and aunts having passed"“ "Robert" lingers only on the lips of my 98-year-old mother and one or two ossified cousins.

I give them a pass. My identity is that secure.

I even use "Robert" in my law practice"“ in pleadings and on stationery and business cards. But I am "Bob" when I introduce myself in court or office or café or (see byline above) when I write.

For decades in north Berkeley I played in a Saturday pickup basketball game where a later, similarly monickered arrival insisted on calling me "Robert," which I countered by similarly addressing him. My seniority prevailed, however. "Bob" I remained to the others, and "Robert" he became. (It was the only aspect of the game, I should say, in which I bested him.)

Blame our parents

Names were a troublesome form of distinction in that park, anyway. It encouraged the type of relationships where you could spend hour upon hour grinding against an opponent and know little more about him than how to identify him for a defensive assignment. As a result, we had "Andy," "The Other Andy" and "Yet Another Andy." We had "Runner Ron," "Pizza Ron" and "Bob's Friend Ron." We had "Big Dave" (later, for his admirably increasing beard length, "Z. Z. Dave") and "Little Dave," who showed up together, followed closely by "Bring 'Em Back Dave," "Hook Shot Dave" and "Construction Dave."

What was it with my generation's parents and their lack of imagination? Did they use it all up fighting the Great depression and Hitler? What did they fear would be unleashed by a smidgen of creativity toward their offspring? I suppose they had only themselves to blame when their grandchildren started turning up as "Moonbeam" and "Cherokee.")

To name something is to assert mastery over it, says the Book of Genesis. So if someone wants to call himself Dylan or Dogg, I can understand. We are who we want to be. Or, maybe more accurately, vice-versa.♦


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