Don't Call Me Ma'am.

by Alice Henry Whitmore a/k/a Lutheran Liar

Even though I’m old enough to remember all too well when Sir Paul was a Beatle, I tend to bristle when addressed as “Ma’am” “Ma’am” is so, well, elderly. I much prefer “Miss”, and I think I will prefer it till the day I’m deaf as a post and have to lip-read any and all forms of address.

Incidentally, I have a friend who hates being addressed as ”Mrs. Smith” (not her real name, of course.) “My mother-in-law is named “Mrs. Smith”, she correctly, if somewhat peevishly, explains. So I don’t think flinching at “Ma-am” is all that prickly.

Maybe I’m extra-sensitive about the Ma’am Thing because I had my daughter so late in life. Relatively speaking, that is. There I was, the year I turned forty, having a baby; the year my mother turned forty I (her baby) was heading to college. This makes me officially an Older Mother. Actually, Older Mothers like me are not all that rare in New York City. But, even though over-forty New Yorkers with young children are fairly common here, you still get the odd Old Mom Moment.

There was the time I took my then-eight-or-so daughter to a podiatrist for reasons that I cannot recall today. What I do remember is that the doctor’s assistant, before ushering my youngster into the exam room, asked her, “Do you want your gramma to come in with you?”

Quick Etiquette Note: If you see a woman—any woman, even one hobbling along with a cane—if you see that woman with a small child, always assume that she is the mother. Trust me. If you say something like, “What is your baby’s name?” and she is in fact the mother, you’re golden. If she’s not the mother, she won’t mind one bit. She’ll blush and smile and admit her proud grandmotherhood. Probably treat you to a coffee too.

Here I must admit that, as much as I prefer “Miss”, there are some perks associated with being a “Ma’am.” I remember a particular instance from a couple of years ago when I was applying for Brazilian visas for a trip to the Amazon. (See, even Ma’ams like adventure.)

I had just cleared the metal detector and was eyeing the DMV-worthy line of hopeful Brazilian visa-getters snaking its way around this cavernous holding pen of a room in the consulate when a security guard asked me sweetly, “How old are you, Ma’am?”

I was somewhat taken aback, but when I told him my age he took me by the arm and led me right up to the front of the line. Apparently, in Brazil (and the consulate “counts” as Brazilian soil) anyone of advanced age goes directly to the front of any line. Whether it’s in the supermarket or at the movies or in the ding-dang consulate. So there.

I had a feeling I was going to like Brazil. And indeed I did, especially since I can’t recall anyone there calling me “Ma’am.” Unless they did and it just sounded nicer in Portuguese.

Alice Henry Whitmore, a/k/a/The Lutheran Liar, is a writer and a keen observer of human nature, skills she honed while working on Madison Avenue for many years. Now that she is retired from the advertising business, she focuses her attention on her weekly humor blog. Her pieces comment on situations and experiences that Lustre readers share.

P.S. A Lutheran lie is strictly true, but false.