“Ma, please don’t call me Dobie.”
I was 16 years old when I uttered those words. I’d spent that summer working at New York City’s Central Park and the not-for-profit organization that employed me and dozens of other teenagers had a lunch in our honor at Tavern on the Green, the posh restaurant on the park’s edge. We were allowed to invite our parents to the event, so of course I invited Mom. But, I didn’t want her to embarrass me in front of my peers by calling me anything other than Robert.
Mom never called me Robert. Ever. I was a newborn when I got the nickname Dobie, thanks to a television show that went off the air nearly 16 years before I was born. Apparently,The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis had a profound impact on Dad. Legend has it that I did something as an infant that mildly annoyed him, leading Dad to utter “Dobie my son, Dobie my son”; that phrase was often repeated by the father of the show’s title character after one of Dobie Gillis’s many misadventures. After that, my parents, who had been looking for a nickname to give me – in part because my father, Robert Jr., was better known as “Rocky” and my grandfather, Robert Sr., answered to “Big Bob” – immediately seized on Dobie. It didn’t take long for Dobie to catch on with the rest of my family. The only holdouts were my maternal grandparents, who weren’t huge proponents of nicknames; they never called me anything other than Robert. Dad took his love for Dobie Gillis even further when he named our cat Zelda, the name of one of Dobie’s best friends on the show.
I was about four or five years old when I began to understand that my given name was Robert and that Dobie was my nickname. I thought having a nickname was really cool; no one else has a nickname, I thought. My bubble burst one day in first grade when my teacher, Mrs. Hines, asked the class how many of us had nicknames and more than half the kids in the room raised their hand. I was crestfallen. However, none of my classmates knew my nickname; I was always known as Robert in school and by anyone who wasn’t family or a friend of the family.
As I grew into an image-conscious preteen, I became hyper aware of when and where Dobie was used. My friends would call me at home and wonder what Mom was shouting to get me to come to the phone, but I played dumb. A few of my friends knew my nickname, but only the handful I knew I could trust not to use it against me; any fodder for schoolyard insults had to be kept close to the vest. I also realized I liked being called Rob, but I never grew fond of Bob or Bobby; Mom didn’t like Rob; I didn’t name you that, she would tell me.
Concerns about my nickname lasted into my teenage years, culminating in my directive to Mom not to call me Dobie in front of my peers at Tavern on the Green. Mom, being the wonderful and understanding mother that she is, obliged. The entire afternoon, Mom called me Robert. And, as I ate chicken with a knife and a fork for the first time, I realized how strange it was to hear Mom call me something other than Dobie; it was as if a different person who happened to sound just like Mom was calling my name. And, that’s when I realized it was fruitless to try and push Dobie aside.
Ever since, I’ve embraced Dobie. Most of my friends – especially the ones who’ve met Mom – know that’s my family nickname. I stopped worrying about the potential insults and barbs caused by my nickname, although it’s made clear to all that only a select few can call me something other than Robert or Rob. I enjoy telling the story of how I got my nickname; I’ve even watched parts of Dobie Gillis episodes on YouTube.
Nowadays, a handful of relatives and family friends call me Robert, rather than Dobie, reasoning that a grown man shouldn’t be called by his childhood nickname. However, neither Mom nor Dad calls me anything other than Dobie. And I would never ask them to.
Follow @raford3
Radio Guy Diaries 