Back in the day, when I was trying very much not to get a playa name (a nickname used in the Burning Man community), there was a moment. In this moment, I had my back to a group of campmates, when someone shouted out, “Hey, Mama J;” and I turned because I knew they were speaking to me … even though my name wasn’t “Mama J.”
And that was it. Much as I wasn’t seeking a nick name, I got one. And it stuck … not because I wanted it to, or tried to get it to stick, but because — as nicknames often do — they come to you and continue on when those around you think they fit. Interestingly, the nickname served me, and well … and for some time. Right around when I got the name, I became a camp lead for a group of people mostly 20 years or more my junior (kinda Mama-ish), and while I was a logistics maestro, I also led in a supporting and supportive manner (also kinda Mama-ish).
Then there was a day when the name no longer fit; and I was done with it. Kaput.
That said: didn’t stop me none from pausing for a moment for a photo opp with with this license plate.
