I wrote this on lunchbreak and forgot to publish it. Wow, I am bad at remembering to click the Publish button. I will never work for Penguin Books.
In another “filler” to pass the time until my next batch of Brooklyn Essays (which seems to be taking FOREVER to write), I’ve decided to talk about something that I’ve found affects how I think about myself and act around other people: nomenclature.
And come to think it, a given name lends a lot more insight into how somebody interacts with the world than usually it’s given credit.
Okay, let’s start with my name.
I’m Nico.
Other people named Nico in history:
- Nico, Warhol superstar.
- Dr. Nico
- Nico Toscani, as played by Steven Seagal
My “Nico” is short for “Nicolo”, which is a re-spelling of “Niccolò”. That is an Italian, and specifically Florentine, name.
Other people named Nicolo / Niccolò in history:
But Nico(lo) isn’t even my first name. It’s my middle name. I’m called by my middle name because somewhere along our family line, one of my grandfathers was prudent enough to see nomenclature as an influence on someone’s life that would shape the outcome of their respective personalities – as such, when someone was named after a parent, they were no longer called by that name. My first name, Ramon, is the same as that of my father’s. But I am not my father. Therefore, In accordance to my grandfather’s rule I am rarely Ramon. That personality is reserved for my Dad. I’m someone else entirely with a trace of my Dad.
I’m Ramon to governments and institutions.
I’m Nicolo in civilian life.
I’m Nico to friends, acquaintances, and colleagues.
I’m Nic to my family.
And I’m nicopolitan when I sign on, so that I remember I’m a citizen in this society made up of four different people that populate the community known as my identity.
Now, let’s move on outwards.
Where did your name come from? Do you think it helped to determine who you would become?
