Recently a good good friend of mine randomly brought up a nickname of his and I, ever the man of hilarious quips, jumped on the chance to recall various nicknames I had for him – or that he made for himself – in the past. This caused a myriad of jumbled memories to coalesce and dominate my thoughts for the next span of seconds. I began attempting to remember all of the various names I carried throughout the years – ones I chose, ones others threw at me, ones that stuck (pretty much none) and ones I shook off.

Nicknames are strange. They’re like sticky notes slapped onto your identity by time, context, and the people around you. Some are jokes, some are shields, and some are scars. So I started jotting mine down—not because they’re particularly glamorous or unique, but because each one pulls up a memory, a version of me that once was.

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The Roll Call of Me

Dan – This would be the default. I don’t even think of it as a nickname anymore because it’s just my name. 

Danny – The oldest one (other than Dan), and the one I initially hated. It never felt like me. But over time, especially when a coworker at Fred Meyer brought it back in the Home department (“Danny boyyy!”), I softened. Funny how things that once chafed can later feel like old socks—worn, familiar, oddly comforting.

Newt – A far less fun one. It came from a so-called friend in 8th grade who decided mocking me was a better social move than mutual respect. I was rail-thin at the time, and apparently that made me look like a newt. He pounced on it, and soon it was echoing across the lunchroom. I hated it. Newt became a symbol of everything I despised about that year—my least favorite in the entire K–12 stretch.

Rufus – On the other side of 8th grade’s coin was this one. I picked Rufus myself, drawn from my obsession with Final Fantasy VII. Rufus Shinra was cool, composed, and had that crisp white suit. So when I went to my friend’s Christian camp, I told everyone to call me Rufus—and one guy actually did. We even half-seriously planned to start a rap group, despite my only exposure to the genre being Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. I’d revive the name here and there through high school, mostly just to amuse myself.

Doomboy603 – My very first AOL handle, courtesy of a crush in 8th grade. I still remember the electric thrill of her suggesting it, the tragically hopeful butterflies in my stomach. I later – much later – asked her out. She said no – but Doomboy603 stuck around anyway for a small time, a weird badge of early internet adolescence and romantic overreach.

LiQuiD ReLiGioN – My second and much more dramatic handle, also used on Palace Chat (MAN I loved South Park). This one came from a friend, who also pitched the equally unhinged AdReNaLiNe IcE cReAm. LiQuiD ReLiGioN felt cool. It became the name of my 9th/10th grade band. (Other runner-ups included Dirty Soap Dish. No, I’m not making that up.)

One I simply can’t remember – I know a friend and coworker (technically boss) had come up with a nickname for me back in 2006-07 when I was working at Suncoast in the Lloyd Center. We had decided to start an Industrial Rock band called “Digital Christ” to which I wrote two song lyrics to and absolutely no actual music. This was a theme for me (see a previous article for more on that). For the life of me, however, I cannot remember the nickname he gave me. I attempted to dredge up Facebook to see if he had mentioned it but he removed his account, and all the written memories derived are now lost to time.

Iel – A personal linguistic experiment. Tired of being called Dan, I sliced off the second half of my name and ran with it. Iel. Like a futuristic monk or a Final Fantasy summon. It was funny, and more importantly, it was mine.

Wu Tang Dan – This one came out of a short-lived rap duo idea with a coworker in 2011. We called ourselves Kyles Davis and the Wu Tang Dan. Despite the name, we never actually made any rap music—just one jazzy, Godzilla-theme-inspired track that was mostly scatting. But hey, we had a name, and sometimes that’s half the fun. I think I had another name – Kyles Davis and the Wu Tang Dan being the band name with Luck Man being his actual rap name. I can’t remember mine though. OH! It was:

Truth Pro Quo – This was my rap name for Kyles Davis and the Wu Tang Dan! Originally this was my production company name for when I was writing that script called The True Story of Christopher Columbus and, later, it became the name of my comic book company (if my comic is ever released). But for a short stint, Truth Pro Quo was the name of a rapper that made hip-hop songs about Super Mario and the wrestler Ric Flair. 

Tigershark – A Facebook-era joke I threw out there to see if anyone would bite. My old boss did, and he still calls me that on occasion. It’s got a weird staying power I didn’t expect. There’s something about saying Tigershark aloud that demands respect… or at least confusion.

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Memory Is a Strange Animal

Going back through these names has made me think about the idea of memory—not just what we remember, but how and why. Some of these nicknames came back to me easily, like they were waiting just below the surface. Others needed a catalyst—a conversation, a smell, a keyboard from the late ’90s. In fact, I remember learning in my high school psychology class that smell is one of the strongest senses tied to memory. It’s funny how something as simple as the scent of dryer sheets or wet asphalt can summon up moments long thought forgotten.

But what’s most fascinating is that memories aren’t fossils—they’re living things. Every time we recall them, we reshape them a little. The malleable nature of memory becomes apparent. Eyewitness testimony is often considered shaky in courtrooms precisely because our minds don’t record experiences like a video camera – they edit, rewrite, and sometimes outright fabricate details to fill in the gaps. We recontextualize the old insults, reframe the embarrassing moments, even find affection for the names we once despised. Memory isn’t a perfect mirror—it’s a scrapbook you keep editing as you grow. And for better or worse, these nicknames are potentially finite tabs in that potentially finite scrapbook. Quick glances into who I was, how I saw myself, and how others did too.

I think about how a memory can remain totally dormant for decades, completely unavailable to conscious thought, and then—boom—a certain inflection in a friend’s voice or the crunch of gravel underfoot yanks it up from the basement like it never left. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s terrifying. But it’s always revealing. Our brains, for all their flaws, are excellent at keeping things until we’re ready—or unready—to deal with them.

Maybe that’s why a nickname like Truth Pro Quo or Doomboy603 can make me laugh now when, at the time, it carried the weight of performance or heartbreak or sheer unfiltered teenage sincerity. Revisiting them is like dusting off old costumes in a closet. I may not wear them anymore, but each one tells a story. And in some way, I’m still the sum of those characters. The digital handle, the scatting rapper, the thin kid in the lunchroom—each one left a fingerprint.

So if you’ve ever been a Newt or a Tigershark or a Doomboy603, take a second to remember what that meant. You might find yourself laughing, cringing, or smiling in quiet recognition—but either way, you’ll find a version of yourself worth revisiting.