Don’t call me sweetie, darlin’
People are sometimes surprised to find that I am 71 years old. They say, “You don’t look 71,” although I beg to differ: This is what 71 looks like. But I guess their intent is to tell me that I look younger than what is generally perceived to be the look of someone in her eighth decade. For some reason, youth is a complement that often carries more weight than expertise or experience.
But last week I was in the supermarket pushing my grocery cart down one of the wide main arteries and almost had a collision with another cart exiting one of the narrower aisles. The gentleman pushing the cart (accompanied by woman and child) stopped abruptly, waved his arm and said, “You go ahead, Sweetie.” I suspected “Sweetie” referred to my frail old age—and, perhaps, a presumption that my reflexes were delayed. Never mind that I was traveling on the highway and he on a side street.
I thanked him with a big old lady grin and pushed my cart past him. But “Sweetie” hung in my mind.I’ve always disliked being called Honey, Darlin’, or Sweetie. Since age ten.
At a routine doctor appointment—in my early 50s—the nurse who measured my vital signs called me “Honey.” I remember because it really irked me. She couldn’t have been more than 30 years old and was not my mother or lover. The pseudo-endearment suggested a supposition that I was past my prime and needed a caretaker.
Of course, sometimes it’s strictly cultural: When I moved to New Orleans, at age 20, I was acutely offended when a male banker called me Darlin.’ I hadn’t yet learned that in the Crescent City, everybody calls everybody “Darlin.’” It’s like ma’am or sir. Only friendlier.
But today I felt old. Having recently moved cross country, I had to make sure my health insurance coverage followed me. I tried to make changes online because I prefer to manage my business through reading and writing—rather than oral conversation—so I can take my time thinking and formulating pertinent questions. And because I have a moderate to severe hearing impairment. Hearing impairment sometimes causes a brief lag in comprehension. Especially when there are no visual cues.
But the website indicated I should call the phone number on the ID card that rides around in my wallet. So, I did. And boy was I frustrated.
I had to listen to the heavily accented rapid-fire English of three different women. I asked the speakers—repeateCadly—to “say that again, please,” and even asked them to slow down. This made me feel old—the way people who call me “Sweetie” view me. After an hour of doing my best to advocate for my needs, I am not entirely certain I got what I wanted or will have it when I need it.
I am pleased when I learn that people of other cultures are employed by American businesses. But in this case, when the bulk of the clientele is old enough that a high percentage of them have difficulty hearing, it would seem logical that a baseline for hiring telephone help would be Standard English pronunciation. And maybe the ability to speak slowly, if called for. But I suspect the people in charge are meant to save money by farming out their phone call business overseas.
On the bright side, I spoke with three people, and nobody called me Sweetie, Honey or Darlin’. At least not that I could hear.