The BDN Opinion section operates independently and does not set news policies or contribute to reporting or editing articles elsewhere in the newspaper or on bangordailynews.com
Jan Begert of Bowdoinham is a life-long Mainer and author. Her first book, “Gifting Time, A Little Memoir on Adolescence,” was recently published.
I’ve been called many things over the course of my lifetime. From “sociopath” (I’m a Boomer) to “sir” (in an airport, long story), or other choice ones from my youth that I can’t mention here. But none have rankled more than these: hon, sweetie, m’ dear, or dearie.
About five years ago, I let my hair lapse fully into its natural state. The pigment producing cells fully disappeared, along with those expensive dye jobs. I figured I’d save some money, and well, why not embrace the inevitable? I was not 20 years old anymore. So why fight it? It only takes a few moments in the morning mirror to remind me of that every day anyway. Brushing my teeth, I look back at a woman I don’t recognize anymore. That woman does not resemble the person I am on the inside.
So, OK, I’m not yet fully embracing the whole aging thing. Rather, toe-dipping my way to acceptance, sacrificing the other end of my body first. But I’m working on it. It’s a process.
My wife and I were discussing this very topic yesterday, when we heard the delivery truck backing into the yard. Slipping on my shoes, I went out to greet the delivery man on the walkway to save him a few steps. (I’m considerate like that.) Handing me the package, he chirped “here you go, m’ dear!” and fairly skipped back to his truck. I stood there wondering if I could clip him in the head with the package if I acted fast enough.
Now, had this been the first time, I might have let it slide. He’s having a great day. He’s ahead of schedule. It’s a sunny day, and I may be the last stop before he gets to head home.
But it’s not! I had unknowingly made a deal with the universe when I made the decision to let nature take over my grooming. In a perverse Faustian bargain, I had apparently agreed to give up my expensive, honey brown No. 16 dye with highlights in exchange for being called by every manner of patronizing, and at times, infantile address.
What is that old chestnut from Sophocles? “A man growing old becomes a child again.” This began to play out verbally for me.
I cared for my mother and elderly aunt well into their 90s and never once addressed them this way. It would never have occurred to me. They were strong, alert women who would have given me the “what fers” had I tried anyway. So what vibe was I giving out that it was happening so consistently?! I mean, I wasn’t drooling all over the place.
It happens most frequently in the service industries. Those gas station-convenience stores or delivery drivers or cashiers. Is it part of the training they receive? “OK, here is a list of names you use when serving a customer with white hair. But only the women. Hon, dearie, sweetie. They like that.”
So, for all of the folks in the service industries, I’ve come up with my own list of preferred titles: ma’am. Yup, that’s it. Just the one. Ma’am (rhymes with ham). Because if it was good enough for the queen, it’s good enough for me.