How my nickname 'Khaki' came about.

About 12 years old. English Roman Catholic Grammar School. All teachers priests, mainly Irish. Strange to say now, that even though my complexion was and is nearer cafe-au-lait than true brown, I was still conspicuously the darkest in the entire school of 600 boys. One day in geography class the priest-master picked me out to answer a question. On answering correctly, with a grin on his face he said something to which nowadays might be taken exception, alluding to my colour. He said "That's right, you little khaki bomb!" Of course the class erupted into hysterics while I flushed deeply, trying to pass the comment over with an awkward smile. But that started it. For weeks afterwards, especially during recreation breaks, boys would come up to me and, mischievously with faux-innocence, ask "Is that right? Have you got a khaki bum?" If it was a barely tolerable joke to begin with it soon became tiresome. The same comment would be made time and time again and my irritation was starting to show, which only goaded them on all the more, kids of that age having a cruel knack of homing in on signs of vulnerability. You will also know that the same kids have a shorthand way of giving each other nicknames - so someone named 'Smith' would be called 'Smithy', a 'Robinson' would become 'Robbo' etc etc. In the same respect my nickname was already just one consonant removed from the sound of 'khaki' anyway before this episode began so it was easy and inevitable that in time the 'bomb' (or 'bum') would be dropped and my name would slip into the new single-word one. At first I didn't like it as it brought awareness of my colour to the fore - few people like to be singled out as 'different' for whatever reason, but even moreso at the sensitive age I was then. But I gradually came to accept it. There was certainly no way I could single-handedly change it.
I was then and still am, to some extent, something of a loner. I was without friends, standing conspicuously alone and apart at recreation times. Some of my classmates seemed to feel as sorry for me as I felt towards myself. Then one of them suggested, "With a name like yours why don't you join the scouts?" (This was when the boy scout uniform was wholly khaki - shirt and shorts, rather than in the wide range of colours one sees these days.) At first the suggestion horrified me. There was just no way I would join - the all-boys regimented together and engaging in rough-and-tumble games and expeditions was definitely not my scene. I wouldn't entertain the thought for a second longer. Then I realised that the suggestion had been made in a spirit of wanting to help me find friendship - the boy who mentioned it was not actually a scout himself. The thought-seed had been planted and it took root - and grew. I began to see how it just might work out and give me an avenue to make friends. It must have been some months later when I took the plunge - I could always stop going if I didn't like it. I joined - and felt every bit as awkward as I'd feared. After a few scout meetings attended there was then the chance to go out for a week's Summer camp on the Yorkshire moors. I'd never been camping with anyone before. When the idea was put to me I wavered and made excuses but was eventually talked round by the Scoutmaster - another Irish priest who always looked quite dotty in his long shorts. At this point I ought to say that I've just talked to my Chowkie friend to ask if he thought I should write about all what happened - which culminated in the most traumatic few hours of my whole life ending with my getting a vicious and prolonged thrashing with a cane on the backside by this very same scoutmaster and being kicked out of the scouts for 'gross misconduct' - all totally unfair, I having been framed by a group of older scouts for a lark who had it in for me - but who turned very sheepish when they saw the extent of the beating I was getting. I'm not going to go into the details of how I was humiliated by them before being set up - they are not really relevant. (I'll only say that I wish before being made to bend over a low-hanging branch I'd had the foresight to remove the coins from my shorts back pocket. Apart from my backside finishing up looking like streaky bacon I got some very nasty cuts on the right side which might easily have become infected.) My Chowkie pal says that I should write the whole story - but I heard a chuckle in his voice so I hope I'll be forgiven if I chicken out of that. (Okay, S., you cheeky devil?) But I only mention this short experience in the Boy Scouts - less than 3 months in total - to say that it was a good reason why I afterwards tried again to shake of my new nickname with all its newly acquired unpleasant associations. I tried really hard, but with years still ahead for me at the same school I was stuck with it - and had to get resigned to accepting it as a permanent feature. When I left school at 16 I did keep in contact with a couple of class colleagues and so the nickname continued into adulthood. By then I'd given up trying to ditch it, even after I lost all contact with these former schoolmates. But as I advanced in years I must admit I've grown to actually like it. In spite of its original horrific associations I can look beyond it and see it as a warm, pally, masculine word - though I'm less keen on its military aspects. So 'Khaki' I am and 'Khaki' I'll stay. One last word on the scouts incidents (I always get nervous every year when August 5th comes round, the anniversary date of when my world turned upside-down) - I like to laugh the whole thing off by saying (not without some pain underneath) "I entered the scouts as a tenderfoot - and was kicked out with a tender bum!" - even though the bum in question at that time was more red than khaki! So now you know.

Next time - where 'khakiFLASH' came from. And no laughing please!