Don't Call Me "Dear"

Thought for the Fortnight: A Guest Post

I have decided to invite, very occasionally, other people to write the Thought for the Fortnight. This will give you a different perspective and allows me to introduce you to writers I like.

Over my eighteen months on Substack, I have found a few writers who are constantly stimulating and put words together in a pleasing way. Rona Maynard is one such person. The author of two memoirs, Starter Dog and My Mother’s Daughter, Rona has been telling stories all her life but did not make writing her vocation until she stepped down from her job as a magazine editor-in-chief.  

I am delighted to be able to offer you a piece by her and, if it leads to your subscribing to her Amazement Seeker, so much the better.  

Over to Rona.

DON’T CALL ME “DEAR”

It was the kind of restaurant where the tables are draped in damask and the leather-bound wine list goes on for pages. A rosy-cheeked waiter leaned over my husband and me, all solicitude and old-school courtesy. He took my order first and asked, “How would you like your salmon, young lady?”

I am a woman in her wisdom years, neither young nor a lady. I’ve earned my dashingly cut silver hair and a few facial grooves that not even candlelight can hide. I wanted to fix that waiter with my most intimidating stare and give him a piece of my mind: “Don’t ‘young lady’ me, sonny! I’ll take my salmon with dignity, thank you! Better get that through your thick head, or your tip will be as skinny as a parsley stem!” But it seemed a bit over the top, so I answered, “Rare.” The server, meanwhile, had already turned to my husband. Next question: “How would you like your steak, sir?”

All my life I’ve been subjected to condescending faux endearments–at first because I happened to be female. Grizzled tradesmen would call me “dear” while addressing my husband as “Mr. Jones.” Sometimes I protested; more often I forgave the unintentional slights of men who had acquired their bad habits when June Cleaver was still vacuuming in pearls. Surely this problem would vanish soon enough when more enlightened generations came of age.

My friends and I were preparing our kids to banish sexism once and for all. Too bad we didn’t take a stand on ageism. Now that we’re old enough to pay for attentive service, we’re getting “dears,” “sweeties” and “young ladies” from those whose job it is to please us. People young enough to be our children are addressing us like children. And increasingly, it’s not just women who are being diminished. Men are starting to learn how it feels. They never guessed this sort of thing could happen to them. 

My husband is not about to take it. On an urban hike, we stopped for lunch at a neighborhood bistro where a perky 20-something waitress asked him, as if the remains of his burger were a botched kindergarten project, “You still working on that, dear?” My husband has raised a son; he has run an organization; he has made tough calls under pressure. I have never seen him at a loss for words. That day he answered “yes” through gritted teeth. Once the waitress was safely out of range, he fumed, “I felt like telling her to fuck off!”

I guess she thought she was just being friendly. Some excuse! Why is it only older people who must suffer this particular brand of friendliness? Because, in the eyes of our juniors, we’re just worn teddy bears on the toy shelf of life, that’s why. They think it’s kind of cute when geezers toddle out on the town (even if the geezers are training to climb Kilimanjaro and the young folks’ last trip was Disney World at March break). They make the snap judgment that we don’t deserve power, so they address us in terms reserved for the powerless. 

Homes for the aged, where some of us will spend our final years, positively ring with “dearies,” “sweeties,” “good girls” and the other diminishing expressions that are collectively known as “elderspeak.” It’s not just offensive; it’s downright harmful. Treating people as dependent can make it so, according to the research on elderspeak. If you want the people in your care to withdraw from life and lose confidence in their abilities, high-pitched blather can make it so.

I had never heard of elderspeak when I used to visit my father—and later my father-in-law—in various institutions where, as far as I could tell, neither man was ever addressed by his name. They were men of sound mind, strong opinions and rich experience—my father a retired professor and painter, my husband’s father an up-by-the-bootstraps type who earned a master’s degree while supporting a family. I cringed to see them treated like incompetents whose smallest personal activities had morphed into group activities (“Are we ready for our bath?” “Have we had our medicine today?”). They had both been raised not to argue with health professionals, but I saw shame on my father’s face. My husband’s father told the elderspeakers off. Instead of wising up, they banished him from their “home.” 

By all means call me “dear” if you’ve shared a bed with me—or a secret or a piece of family lore that no one else alive would remember. If not, don’t pretend that we are dear to each other. You don’t have to call me anything at all, if you address me as one human to another. But if you must call me something, just ask me my name. I have listened all my life for the sound of my name, and I’d be glad to hear it from you (either Rona or Ms. Maynard, I’m not picky). My name has marked my place in the world from my first kindergarten report card to the spine of my first book, and one day it will appear at the top of my obituary. Until then, I’m not taking any guff.

Rona Maynard’s contact details:

https://ronamaynard.substack.com

http://www.ronamaynard.com

Over to you: I invited Rona to submit whatever piece she wished and I like this post, but I don’t agree with her point of view. I am very happy to be called endearments by strangers and do not feel condescended to when they happen. It is quite common in the UK.  What do you think?