Il Soprannome:
The Folksy DNA
Story and photographs by Tom Weber
Queen Mary I of England struck fear in the hearts of her countrymen as "Bloody Mary." United States president Abraham Lincoln was humbly known as "Honest Abe." Elvis, even after he left the building, was and always will be the "King of Rock-and-Roll." Muhammad Ali, f.k.a Cassius Clay, was given the hometown moniker of "Louisville Lip" early in his boxing career. And, during his heyday, Frank Sinatra roamed the Las Vegas strip as the "Chairman of the Board." Whether you're a boxer, a rocker, a president, a crooner, a queen or a John/Joan Doe, your soprannome (nickname) tells almost as much about you as the genetic instructions found in your DNA. Piovene Rocchette - Where Everybody knows your (Nick)name
Never is this truer than in Piovene Rocchette - a former Roman control post along the road towards Tirol and today a small municipality of just under 8,500 curious onlookers that sits at the foothills of the pre-Alps in the province of Vicenza in Italy's northeastern Veneto region -- where the art of giving most locals, or even entire families, a soprannome that brands them for the rest of their lives is brought to new heights.
For instance, an unkempt man who lived up in the hilly part of town, and not very good at keeping his house clean, was affectionately referred to as Maiale sciolto in cucina. (Pig loose in the kitchen) My dearly departed brother-in-law, Attilio, who stood 1.9m, was nicknamed Di qui non si passa (From here no one passes) after the inscription of the same chiseled into the World War I monument in the city center honoring those who served in the "War to end all wars." Maria, my wife, who, along with her entire family, immigrated to Canada, returned home alone after ten years abroad and was warmly and immediately christened Maria Canadese. (Canadian Maria) As the lone Yank who lived a spell in postal code 36103, I was simply called l'Americano. (The American) I would've preferred a moniker a bit more creative, graphic, or endearing, but the townsfolk dubbed me l'Americano and I ran with it. Admittedly, George Clooney I'm not, but I managed to fit right in. From Blackbirds to Gravesites
On frequent strolls through Piovene Rocchette on our way out to the cemetery or just around town - that's what people do for fun on Sundays after lunch in small bergs here in Italy - Maria Canadese would point people out -- those we would pass on the street, their house or apartment where they lived, or during a pause at a gravesite -- always by their nicknames, never their surnames: Merlo (Blackbird, due to the man's pronounced beak and fidgety head), Marco Orto (Mark Vegetable Garden, the green grocer just down the street), Papa Grappa (Father Grappa, the monsignor at the parish church who enjoyed wetting his whistle), and the list goes on and on. Beppe Testa - In Vin Veritas
During the week, I would commute back and forth to Vicenza for work and leave the house at 7:30 a.m. right on schedule. Right on schedule, too, was Beppe Testa -- a close friend of my suocero, (father-in-law) Guido -- who always made his way by our house at the same time as I was pulling the car out, meandering up Via Liberta' (Freedom Street) for his daily constitution at the Bar La Torre (Tower Tavern). I'd always roll down the window, wave and say Buongiorno Signor Testa (Good morning Mr. Testa). He'd smile, wave back, but gave me a confused look like he didn't recognize me.
Most evenings when I returned home from work I'd find suocero Guido at the kitchen table engrossed in his daily Bible reading -- the pink pages of La Gazzetta dello Sport (The Sport Gazette). Before heading upstairs to our apartment, I'd pop in, spend a few minutes with him, maybe have an aperitivo (or two) and get the latest lowdown on Inter, his beloved soccer team. On one particular night, I mentioned to him that I saw his old friend, Signor Testa, that morning walking by the house. Signor Testa? Guido inquired. Chi e Signor Testa? (Who is Mr. Testa?) I replied, "Your old friend, Beppe." "Ah," Guido chuckled, "his real name is Giuseppe Bertoldo. We call him Beppe Testa because he has such a BIG head (testa)." Quickly realizing my gaff, I chuckled, too, unfortunately, at Beppe Big Head's expense. So, what's your folksy DNA? Related Articles: |
