O. C. Piggy

By Robertha White Morgan

Most Jamaicans I know have, at the very least, two nicknames in addition to their ‘government name’ given by their parents at birth. I am not sure, but I think the Jamaican love and affinity for nicknames might be a holdover from the beliefs of our African forbears, who tended to keep the real names of their children a secret to ward off the workers of evil magic that they believed could use a person’s name to harm them. 

The Yoruba people of Nigeria —one of the tribes from which many Jamaicans are descended— give their children multiple names—some public, some private, and at least one believed to be brought from the spirit world. This sacred name, the orúko àmútọ̀runwá, is often known only to the tribe’s elders and is closely guarded. They believe the sacred name holds spiritual power and influences a child’s destiny. When Africans were brought to Jamaica as slaves, they brought with them not only their language and rhythms but also their belief in the occult, or Obeah, and the practice of bestowing nicknames, pet names, or ‘yard’ names as a layer of cultural protection and personal identity. 

In the six years I spent in primary school, I was never in class with Mark, Marie, Paul, or Natesha. There were only ‘Egghead’, ‘String Bean’, ‘Blacks’, ‘Peaches’, and me— ‘Berta-B’, otherwise called ‘Miss Piggy’. That was the nickname that stuck, most likely helped along by two things: the fact that I was a portly child (I had my nightly routine of large mugs of milky Milo and bread slathered with butter, along with an enduring love of pastries to thank for that) and the blue tin lunch pail I carried every day, adorned with the figure of Miss Piggy herself—flamboyant in her pink feather boa—emblazoned across the side. She was my favorite Muppet, loud and unapologetically fabulous, but “Miss Piggy” when aimed at me was not a compliment.

I can still hear it: “Miss Piggggy!” echoing across the dusty schoolyard, always stretched out for emphasis, always followed by raucous giggles. Sometimes the boys would oink at me for an extra bit of fun. Most of the time, I tried my best to ignore the taunting and pretended not to care. But other times, my temper would flare, and my favorite lunchbox morphed into my defense weapon. I learned to swing that lunch tin with purpose, and by the time I left primary school, it had quite a few dents left by the heads of the boys who taunted me. Sometimes I would get into trouble for taking matters into my own hands, but it was worth it because eventually, those boys and everyone else saw me as a tough girl—a reputation I had not asked for—but held onto because it made them leave me alone.

  Jamaican nicknames are usually connected to someone’s physical features, occupation, habits, or ethnicity. Throughout my life, I’ve known a ‘bulby’ (big eyes), real name Damion, ‘liptimus’ (large lips) real name Jerome and various ‘nutsy’ (peanut vendors), ‘broomie’ (broom makers/sellers), ‘caney’ (cane vendors) and not a few ‘Missa Chin’ and ‘Ms. Chin’ (bestowed on any type of Asian, not only those of Chinese heritage). That might sound strange—or even rude—to people outside the culture, but at home, it isn’t meant to be offensive; it’s more of a cultural shorthand, something that's been around for generations. My island’s motto, “Out of Many, One People,” really says it all. We’re a mix of backgrounds—African, Indian, Chinese, European, Middle Eastern—so most people, especially those of Chinese descent born and raised on the island, understand that being called "Ms. Chin" or "Mr. Chin" isn't a slur. It’s just part of the local way of speaking.

When I got to university, a friend in my Mass Communications program decided, upon first meeting me, that my name was going to be ‘Cordelia Brown’. I was from a rural parish and, according to him, behaved as if I had been raised with my grandparents. I had an old soul, so he thought an ‘old-lady name’ suited me. It is a peculiarity of Jamaican culture that a nickname can have absolutely no relation to a person’s first name; the names can be completely random and can sometimes be a full ‘proper’ name. Years later, that friend and I ended up working in the newsroom of the same media house, and even then, he sometimes still called me Cordelia, in jest, a reference to the good old days at Uni. 

In my second year, I decided to apply to live in one of the five Halls of residence at the University of the West Indies. Preston Hall was only a few years old when I moved in, and I immediately fell in love with the condo-style arrangement of the dorms. Each building had three or four rooms (single and double occupancy), a communal kitchen, and a bathroom enclosed inside a small courtyard with fruit trees.  I knew there would be a bit of hazing for all the new students moving in, but I was not prepared for the “hall name” ritual.

As a ‘fresher’, I couldn’t be officially welcomed into the hall community without receiving my new name, bestowed in a bizarre ceremony organized by the seniors.  On Name Day, the seniors transformed the common room into a makeshift maze. Desks were piled haphazardly to create pathways through the room, and the different sections were separated by sheets hung from bits of rope that formed makeshift clotheslines. It was hot. It was chaotic. And I was hungry.

I was near the back of the line, waiting for my turn to go in, fanning myself with my hands in a pointless attempt to beat the heat, all while wondering if this was worth it. When my turn finally came, I stepped into the maze, irritated at the overdone silliness of it all. The first senior popped out wearing a mask and shouted, “Fresher, state your name!” I rolled my eyes and answered in a deadpan voice, “Robertha.” A second voice boomed from behind a curtain, “Alright, gwaan to the next station. An’ walk wid vibes!” I did not walk with vibes. I shuffled forward, arms folded, my attitude practically sizzling in the heat.

At the end of the maze, I met the panel: three final-year students sitting on plastic chairs like a tribunal. They asked questions I barely remember. I do remember all my answers were laced with sarcasm and hot, angry tears. My three inquisitors laughed and whispered together before one of them announced: 

“Go forth, Loco... fully mad.”

And just like that, ‘Loco’ was born. I would remain ‘Loco’ for three years, and I hated it. “Loco” didn’t feel fair. I wasn’t crazy—just irritated.  “Loco” was loud, unpredictable, and slightly unhinged. Nothing at all like the quiet country girl I was when I went to university. Only those in the hall who didn’t know me well ever called me “Loco” consistently, likely because I rarely answered to the name. 

After graduation, I got a job as a rookie reporter at a large radio and television station. I was no longer the portly “Miss Piggy” from primary school or “Loco” who strutted through university halls; my nickname changed yet again. This time, the names ‘Robbie Burnett’ and ‘Bobbie’ were given to me by two older colleagues. ‘Robbie Burnett’, in the eyes of the male announcer who bestowed it, suited me because I was ‘perky’ due to my penchant for floral mini-dresses and wearing my permed hair in a flipped bob, reminiscent, he said, of comedian Carol Burnett. He was a bit infatuated with me and gave me the name in an awkward attempt at courtship. He found my youthful enthusiasm endearing and often laughed at my excitement to be on the road, covering the big stories— parliament, fires, live reports from crime scenes.  

After one look at me and my perfectly permed bob, the female presenter dubbed me ‘Bobbie’ because to her, I looked like a student who should still be wearing a uniform and white bobby (gym) socks to school. In her eyes, I was young and innocent, and she didn’t want me to sacrifice my natural sweetness in the cutthroat world of the newsroom. At the station, nicknames weren’t just a means of endearment; they were shorthand for who you were in the eyes of your colleagues. “Robbie Burnett” and “Bobbie” reflected how I was seen: eager to please, and a little quirky, as I tried to figure out how to navigate the professional world.

At 23 years old, when I met the man who would become my husband and his family, two more names were added to my list of monikers. Sheldon called me ‘Robbie’ almost from the moment we met. He wanted to have his own special name for me. With him, it wasn’t about fitting into a mold or being seen a certain way by colleagues. It was about closeness and affection. “Robbie,” said in the soft tone he reserved just for me, became a term of endearment, softening the edges of all the other names I had carried before.  In the 13 years we spent together, he only ever called me Robertha when he was upset.  My soon-to-be sisters-in-law and I became fast friends, and they both called me ‘Roch’, short for my middle name, Rochelle.  ‘Roch’ felt like a bridge—connecting me to them, to a new family, while still holding my identity. It made me feel comforted and welcomed by them. Our bond and closeness survived the death of my husband 2 years ago, and it still makes me feel warm when I open a text message from either of them, and see “Hey Roch” printed on my screen.

Perhaps because I have had so many nicknames—some playful, some painful—I’ve made it a quiet mission to call people, especially adults, by their actual names. Names carry weight. I know what it is to have one hurled at you like a stone, worn like armor, or offered like a gift. But with my children, it’s different. With them, nicknames flow freely, like breath unfiltered and affectionate.

My son Micah is ‘Papichulo’, ‘Pops’ (unlike his older sister, birthing him went so quickly I often think of him just popping out), and ‘Bossy’ (because he naturally draws people in, all the neighborhood kids regularly come to ask if he can come out to hang with them). Each name arrived organically, tied to a moment, a mood, or some inside joke from our little world. My daughter Samara answers to ‘Sami’, Sugarplum’ (she was a sweet-tempered child who rarely cried when she was little), and—when I’m feeling especially silly —‘Samichulo’. I sprinkle those names across our days like seasoning, and now that they’re older (12 and 18) and sometimes look askance at me when I call them by these names, I tell them, “You are called because you are loved.” To them, I’m just Mummy. Not Miss Piggy, not Loco, not Bobbie or Roch. And maybe that’s why I feel so free giving them names of my choosing—names that hold no sting, only sweetness.

In my mind, I have never been anyone but Robertha (meaning fair and honest), daughter of Robert, the name I got from my father anyway, even though his prediction that his second-born would be a boy did not come true. But after a lifetime of nicknames—some earned, some assigned—I’ve come to believe that names are not just labels; they’re stories reflecting a version of me at different points in my life. So, when I tell the Starbucks barista my name is ‘Rochelle’, it’s not because I’ve rejected who I am, it’s just easier than watching them fumble and forget to put the all-important ‘h’ in ‘Robertha’ on my cup of caramel bruleé latte. And besides, Rochelle is still me, a quieter mask for a world that doesn’t care or need to know all my names.

By Robertha White Morgan