Kitsch, My Favorite Nickname

I had a summer fling once who liked to give me nicknames. Not in a weird, kinky, condescending kind of way, I just seemed to inspire them, so to speak. Like one day he looked up at the "Y" shaped scar on my forehead, focusing only on the slanting right half of it, and declared I should also be called "Tilda," like the accent mark you see written above vowels in other languages.

And I didn't mind this process of renaming. Growing up, I didn't really have nicknames. It's hard to shorten "Erica" to anything except "Er" (pronounced "Air") and despite my blondness, the name didn't fit. "e" came later, but only through my love affair with e.e. cummings' flair for making the lower case "e" look so damn good; and a few of my friends deciding that really, it was just a good letter for me.

The one name he really liked to call me though was "Kitsch." I'm not sure he knew the word before he met me, but as he saw me half unpacked, holding my beloved "jar o' kitsch," I think I shaped his understanding of it. It was cute and quirky and with that edge of sexiness that makes you want to see what it tastes like, so I let him call me "Kitsch."

I mean, he had good reason too--each surface I touched had that tacky sentimentality to it that I love--and when I got my first car that same summer, I made sure to "kitsch" it out. Stickers were bought and found; a pukka shell necklace, given to me by my great-grandmother for being a good driver, was wound around the shifter; graduation cords and sashes adorned seats and rear windows accompanied by various plastic sea toys; "Buddha Bouncer" was given his rightful protective place in the center console; and I pinned my Heather lapel from my father next to my driver's side light. Thus in this way, not only would my car reflect my personality, it would also be well protected.

And today of all days, I can't help but think that my collection of kitsch might be working to keep me safe somehow. The rain was pouring down hard on Highway 1 South between Ocean and Morissey and I could have spun across two lanes of traffic and been struck sideways when I hydroplaned; I could have flipped over and smashed completely against the median instead of just tapping it with my wheels; all of my belongings could have been strewn across the highway instead of just part of my back bumper; and I might not be sitting on my friend's futon right now, taking it easy.

And when I realized the rather minimal damage for what could have been a totaled vehicle, I wanted to kiss each and every piece of kitsch in that car. I wanted to run my finger along Buddha's head and say thank you; I wanted to brush my hand against the shells and think of my great-grandmother; I wanted to play with the toys and straighten the sashes.

Sitting in my car, I took in a deep breath and with that breath did all of those things without moving, and my fingers found the carved marble rubbing stone my father had made me, hanging around my neck on a string of leather, and was thankful for the love in each and every piece of my own personal kitsch.

So the next time anyone asks why it is I might actually like being nicknamed after unworthy, tacky sentimental art, I think I'll just reply, "Hey man, kitsch is powerful stuff."