I used to collect nicknames. None really stuck, but that was hardly important. Getting them was more important than if they stayed put. When I wrote, I used another name. When I turned in schoolwork (back in those days of school), I used another name. Among my closest friends, I used another name.
My name as it was, got misspelled constantly. I took to spelling it Airyque in school in order to muddy the issue of spelling beyond discussion. If pressed, I'd joke it was spelled Airy3que, borrowing the old Tom Lehrer line "the 3 is silent, you see." That seemed to appeal to some of my friends and for a while, we all had 3s in our names.
When I'd moved to San Francisco and fell into a deep life-long love with Lindy Hop, I began collecting nicknames again after a hiatus of several year. Most were pretty unremarkable: E. E-baby. E-love. E-money. And a few interesting ones aside, I was often just E.
After dancing for a year or so, I'd started to DJ events. The first San Francisco Swing Dance Festival was one I DJed at. I was sick the week before the event. The day before the opening dance, I was helping the organizers set up. And in the chatter as everyone bustled around with equipment, my voice faded out. My throat couldn't take it anymore and I lost my voice.
It was kind of a great thing. It's hilarious asking strange women from across the country to dance without a voice. And I remember conversations anyway. I remember George Reed coming up to me all weekend, mimicking my miming "Sorry I have no voice" with nonsense sign language at me, grinning from ear to ear. I remember just before my voice went out saying to Dawn Hampton "I'm no dancer" and her responding by telling Ron from London "Slap him in the mouth."
When I got on stage to DJ the first time, I had no voice to say anything to the crowd. Paul announced me as "DJ Silent e". And it's appealed to me enough ever since, so I still sling it around, even if no one else does. Having it, after all, is more important than if it stays put.
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