Guest Writer

Let me introduce my friend, Dolly.  She is a writer living in Washington State, and I've known her since she was four and I was five.  We wrote together as children.

She wrote a neat little piece in January that she's shared with her writing group, and today she is sharing it with you.  I think you will like it!

But first, let's cover our Lenten quote for today:

“My past, O Lord, to Your mercy; my present, to Your love; my future to Your providence.”
― Padre Pio

Now Dolly's article:

Jolts

I recently turned 67. The other day, I got “honned” for the first time by a young, 20-something  male.  I don’t mean that I’ve never been called “Hon” or “Honey” before, just never by a male young enough to be my grandson.  And though I should be used to these things by now, it caught me off guard. Shocked me.  “Okay, well, thanks, Hon,” is what the young man said when I answered a question he’d asked.

“Anna,” I stormed to one of my favorite co-volunteers at the food bank – age 16 -   “that guy just HONNED me!”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s honned?”

“He called me Hon! He’s – what? – twelve years old (I tend to exaggerate when miffed) and he’s calling me Hon? What does he think I am - one step away from a nursing home?”

Anna laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said.  “People call me that all the time.”

“You wait,” I said, “your day will come.”

A young person, a young man, had called me “Hon” and, instantly, I felt as reduced and wrinkled as a piece of dried fruit.

(Now, who has the problem here: me or the young man?)     

I’m also not crazy about being called Sweetie or Honey or Dear by women younger than I.  That’s been going on for a while. Older women, it’s okay. In fact, being called an endearment by someone old enough, or nearly old enough, to be my mother makes me feel, well, younger. But to be called that by someone of lesser years, when your faculties are still sharp, is to feel the sting of condescension.  These are terms you use with children or your mate or possibly someone with dementia.  My hairdresser, to whom I’ve gone for over 6 years, recently slapped me with a Dear. I’m older than she, but not hugely; I always thought of us as equals, two grown-up women who understood each other’s references.  And it just came out of the blue, that Dear; she’d always called me by my name before. I didn’t like it. I haven’t been back. My hair’s a fright.

The power of words. The word “ma’am” was my first big jolt.  I was 38 or 39, fairly fit, and under the impression that I looked younger than I was.  I was going to Fort Lewis to visit the son of a friend. This was many years ago, before security was so intense. At the gate, as they gave my car a cursory inspection, they were ma’aming me all over the place. It was so strange.  I’d never heard it said so many times before, and in reference to me.  Every Ma’am sounded as though it had been written in bold font, underlined, and with exclamation marks at the end!!  (Later, I was told they use that address, that “ma’am”, with all women, but the truth was, it was applicable to me at the time; I just hadn’t faced it yet.) And, so, Bam! my “miss-hood” was gone. And the perks of miss-hood with it.

I spent a while sorrowing over my lost miss-hood; going through all those phases of grief: the denial, the anger, the bargaining (ala crazy diets, stupidly expensive face creams, compulsive exercising); the depression.  And, finally, acceptance - of a sort.    

Then, in my 50s, the next big jolt.  This was the female condescension I mentioned earlier. A waitress, no more than 10 or 12 years younger than I, called me “Sweetie.”  I was stunned. She thinks I’m a sweetie? She thinks she can get her “feel-youngs” off me?

“Did you hear what she called me?” I demanded of my companion, Gary, when she left our table. He stared at me blankly. “She called me Sweetie! What am I, at death’s door? Next thing you know, she’ll be asking me where I parked my walker!”

“She probably calls everyone that,” he said, giving me his I’ll-never-understand- women look.  He was not remembering how he hated to be called “Sir” when he was in his late 30s -  and I only thought of it later. We all have our jolt-words. That night, I asked, “Do I really look that old? “  And, of course, he being the lovely man that he is, said, “No, of course not”.  

And now this Hon..

I want “Ma’am” back. I’ve earned it.

 Oh, and the word “elderly”; let’s not forget that one! I came across that one in my late 40’s. There was an article in the paper about a 60-year old woman who’d been robbed. She was described as “elderly”.  “The elderly woman was …” etc. etc. And, yes, I raged. “What do they mean, ‘elderly’? My God, she’s only ten years past 50!”

There are lots of jolts in this aging process, at least for me. And they always seem to catch me unawares. But, then, there were many jolts in my youth as well.  I recover more quickly than I did back then; I am able to laugh about things sooner. Still, I have my moments, and words that press my buttons.  Hon, from a young man, is only the latest.  I wonder what word will jolt me next – Granny, maybe (though I’m not one); or how about old crone?  I intend to fight each belittling word, if only in my mind. I will not go silently “into that good-night”.  No matter how old and pathetically wizened I may or may not appear, I’m not down for the count yet.  I’ve still got stuff to contribute, whether it be from a wheelchair or standing on my two, elderly, varicose-veined legs.    

      

 

Dolly Harmon/ January, 2014