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Nicking Names

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Nickname Knoxville Contest!

A distinguished panel of Knoxville historians and community leaders will judge the results of the contest (if they happen to be in the room at the time we make our decision). Winner and runners-up will be announced in Metro Pulse's Sept. 12 issue. (By then, we'll have figured out some sort of prize to award.) To enter, e-mail your Knoxville Nickname by Sept. 9, 2002.

From scuffly to scruffly, Knoxville's been known as a lot of things. What will the 21st century call us?

by Scott McNutt

A friend of mine and I once were discussing why Knoxville never seems quite comfortable with itself. Her explanation was that Knoxville never "is"—instead, it's always "becoming," always yearning to be. And because it's always longing to be something else, it will never be what it is. This seemed quite profound, and I told her so. And it may be accurate. But I think all Knoxville really wants is a good nickname.

Look what being "The Big Apple" did for New York. Nobody ever asks how New York resembles an apple; no one ever asks what's so great about being an apple in the first place. But just call a place The Big Apple, and—bang!—it's the financial and cultural center of the world.

Well, Knoxville doesn't have any more connection to apples than New York does. But it does have the UT Volunteers. So maybe Knoxville should call itself The Big Orange. Then again, Knoxville is more than a mere appendage to the University of Tennessee (whatever the UT administrators may think), so perhaps nicknaming itself after just this one element of its many attributes would be a mistake. After all, Knoxville has borne several titles in its history. The question is, are any of them suitable for the Knoxville of today?

Prior to actually becoming Knoxville, this locale's first nickname (at least to Europeans) was Scuffletown. As News-Sentinel writer Fred Brown puts it, Scuffletown "was a place where boisterous militia troops and fortune hunters stopped to camp, drink, wrestle, fight, then move on." Even after Scuffletown transmogrified into Knoxville, the militia enjoyed a good scuffle now and then to liven the place up. In 1793, the columns of the Knoxville Gazette were filled regularly with advertisements for deserters, accounts of soldiers' clashes with merchants, and Commander William Richard's admonishments not to buy anything (for instance, their equipment) from his soldiers.

Nor were early military brawls the only reason the name became associated with Knoxville. In 1798, traveler Thomas Weir observed a Knoxville filled with so much gambling, drinking, and general bad behavior that he was moved to write, "It was said by a gentleman of the neighborhood that the devil is grown so old that it renders him incapable of traveling and that he has taken up in Knoxville and there hopes to spend the remaining part of his days...as he believes he is among friends."

While "Scuffletown" has a certain rough charm, the name does not, perhaps, project the image Knoxville wants in the 21st century. Besides, a Knoxville scuffle hasn't really made the news since 1956, when Cas Walker and Councilman Jim Cooper duked it out in City Hall (that did make international news, by the way—as a sign of Tennessee's political backwardness). So, unless Mayor Ashe challenges Sheriff Tim Hutchison to a duel before his term is up, Scuffletown probably doesn't do us justice anymore.

In the years after the Civil War a growing reputation for marble quarrying and finishing gave Knoxville its next nickname, the Marble City. But today, besides a lot of tombstones, a few monuments in Washington, D.C., place names like Marble Hill, and organizations like the Marble City United Methodist Church, little remains of our marble history for Knoxvillians to brag about. However, there's one way the old title could make a comeback. If the Venture Formerly Known as Universe Knoxville somehow manages to get the go-ahead, Knoxville could be known as The City That's Lost Its Marbles.

By at least 1885, Knoxville was sometimes called Queen City of the Appalachians or Queen City of the Mountains. This was apparently because of its prominence as a regional center of manufacturing, trade, civic, and cultural activities, not because it boasted an unusual preponderance of queens. Since that time, however, other hot spots of regional activity have popped up—Asheville comes to mind. So, unless Asheville wants it, "Queen" is probably a designation best left to the history books. This is especially so, because it would be embarrassing indeed if the old nickname were somehow conflated with Knoxville's ensuing nickname, Underwear Capital of the World.

The Queen City earned its reputation as the Underwear Capital of the World by dint of hard labor: Labor in cotton mills, labor in woolen mills, labor in knitting. Those mills were proud to be known for their production of unmentionables, especially Standard Knitting Mills, seeing how frequently it mentions them in print. In a display ad in the July 5, 1936, News-Sentinel, Standard Knitting Mills calls itself "The Home of Three Season Underwear for Men and Boys...Wear Knit Underwear for Comfort, Health and Service." Similar advertisements ran for years.

When World War II came, knitting underwear was the patriotic thing to do. Standard Knitting Mills' enormous contribution of undies to the war effort was noted appreciatively by the government. But the war ended and knit underwear lost its appeal, apparently. Today, Knoxville has few remaining ties to the textile industry. Thus, sadly, we must surrender the Underwear Capital title to some more deserving city. Washington D.C., maybe.

Another nickname Knoxville deserved, though probably did not go out of its way to earn, was the Ugliest City in America, so designated by John Gunther in his wildly popular 1947 travelogue, Inside USA. Knoxvillians of the time might have ignored Gunther's harsh assessment, ascribing it to someone too astounded with the marvels of TVA to properly appreciate Knoxville's more homely charms.

Unfortunately, Gunther's perception had corroboration. In 1925, Boston author Jennie Bly described Knoxville's buildings as having a "whacked-up" appearance. Belgian-French novelist Odette Keun was so dismayed and oppressed by her 1936 stay in Knoxville's blistering weather, filth, and reek, that in a letter to the News-Sentinel she called it "one of the ugliest, dirtiest, stuffiest, most unsanitary towns in the United States." (Which the editors declined to run, fearing for Ms. Keun's personal safety.) At least she didn't say "the most-" which is what famed war correspondent Ernie Pyle had done the previous year: "They say that Knoxville, Tennessee, was the dirtiest city in the world, and as far as I know, they're right."

At this point, it may be wisest to move on without pausing to ponder whether Knoxville is still deserving of the sobriquet, Ugliest City in America.

From the '20s to the '60s, such appellations as "Home of the Vols," and "Gateway to the Smokies" grew up around Knoxville. "Home" we may dispense with for the same reasons "The Big Orange" was rejected. "Gateway" may be similarly dismissed, because it does not relate to Knoxville proper at all. It makes Knoxville only a stop-over on the journey to somewhere else. Besides, Gatlinburg also claims to be the Gateway to the Smokies. As does Pigeon Forge. Townsend and Loudon County and Sevierville and Waynesville, N.C., do too. We don't want to stoop to competing with them, do we? (Those tourism board members who decided to call our new tourist center "The Gateway Regional Visitors Center," please do not answer that question.)

Back in '94, Metro Pulse Secret Historian Jack Neely appropriately chastised '70s CBers for originating the transcendentally dull nickname "K-town." So it is permissible to pass it by, as well as its brethren in mediocrity Knoxvegas and Knoxpatch, with only one observation. In '94, Jack noted only three ongoing concerns still bearing the K-Town affixation: K-Trans, K-Town Finance, and K-Town Realty. The latter two, perversely, persist.

From a story in the Wall Street Journal came Knoxville's next nickname, one that still endures: "the scruffy little city." In her front page story, Susan Harrigan openly questioned whether anyone would come to a World's Fair in such an obscure place. Knoxville got its revenge for that slight. On May 1, 1982, the Knoxville Journal's headline crowed in huge letters "WELCOME WORLD / The 'scruffy little city' did it!" Though it was never adopted by the more respectable sorts, ever since, "scruffy little city" has been sort of a rebellious epithet for those Knoxvillians outside the mainstream (and struggling against its current) to throw in the face of naysayers.

It has a nice fairy-tale quality to it, does "the scruffy little city that could." But an event held 20 years ago, which yielded dubious returns on its investment (including the scandalous collapse of a huge banking empire), is probably not the best thing to prop your defiance upon. Besides, it has that fairy-tale ring. Knoxville needs something more grown up.

A title earned long ago, but of more recent vintage is "The Cradle of Country Music." A couple of years ago on the k2k online discussion forum, a controversy developed over whether Knoxville could rightly claim that honorific. The debaters went so far as to compare the number of musicians who got their start here as opposed to Bristol, the number of radio stations devoted to country music in 1933, etc. The consensus finally reached appeared to be that, though other cities might have equal title to the name, Knoxville has every right to its claim.

Which is all fine and dandy. But if other cities want it, why should we settle for being country music's cradle? Let Bristol and Nashville and whoever else squabble over that one. We could assert our right to something much more colorful, like "The Pacifier of Country Music," "The Dirty Diaper of Country Music's Twin Brother, Fred," "Country Music's Besotted, Abusive Stepfather," or even "The Cradle and Grave of Country Music," a fitting allusion to Hank Williams' final night on Earth, one would think. In any event, even though this is a title richly deserved, it's still a reflection of what Knoxville was, not what it is.

There have been other names in recent times. Mayor Ashe is fond of calling Knoxville "America's Biggest Little City," which is cute, if trifling, while the old Worsham Watkins Renaissance Knoxville proposal designated us the "Urban Center of East Tennessee," which is boring, if accurate. I have a tendency to call us "Knoxiousvile" myself, which, though unnecessarily insulting, is nonetheless a term of endearment. (But that says far more about my twisted nature than about Knoxville.) So, in the end, we are still left without a nickname that really zings.

That's where you come in. We're holding a contest to give Knoxville a new nickname as it strides boldly into this fresh century (or creeps stealthily, as the case may be). We're looking for something that encompasses and expresses all that we have been, all that we are, and all that we might be—in five words or less, please. Sure, it's a challenge. But you're Knoxvillians. You're up to it. You can't be scruffy forever.