Calling a Spade a Spade

Have you ever thought of just the right thing to say too late to say it?  I did when someone addressed me as “young man,” and the comeback I’d thought of was too late.    But I determined to use it the first time the opportunity presented itself.  Well, the opportunity presented itself a couple of times before I finally used it, first because I had forgotten it and then because I didn’t think of it in time.  But last week, when a hospital orderly, helping me down from a cystoscopy table, said “easy, young man,” I said “if I look like this when I’m young, what will I look like when I’m old?”  This made him laugh and gave me immense satisfaction. 

But why should being addressed as “young man” bother me?  Does that term of address suggest that old age is disreputable, shameful and therefore the speaker must pretend that I’m young?  If this was the speaker’s goal, a far better strategy to accomplish it would have been to use a neutral term, such as “sir,” or “Mr.” plus last name or even the elder’s first name alone, as so many medical workers do. 

But I don’t think that was the orderly’s goal.  His tone was both respectful and affectionate. Would I have felt better had he addressed me as “Grandfather,” as is the custom in some other cultures, or “Grandpa”?   I wouldn’t mind “Grandfather,” although its use would mark the speaker as foreign.  But “Grandpa” would be as irritating as “young man,” because it carries more than a whiff of condescension.   And now that I think of it, that’s the basis of my reaction to “young man.”  It strikes me as condescending. 

For years, my late beloved Uncle Bill would greet me with “hello, young man,” even when I had reached middle age.  But of course I was a young man in comparison to him.  His term of address was a mark of affection and I understood it as such.  Nowadays, the only people who address me as “young man” are strangers, invariably men of lower socioeconomic status.  Perhaps there are different rules of speaking at play here.

I recall the transit authority worker who addressed me as “Buddy” last summer as he complimented me on my attire, telling me that I looked so “sharp” I’d be able to go out with beautiful women.  “I already am,” I said, gesturing toward my wife who was walking ahead of me.  (For once I had a timely response.)  He laughed and I felt good about the exchange.  He was as condescending as the hospital orderly, but unlike the orderly, his address was humorous and ironic. 

If I complain about being called “young man” it shows I don’t have much to worry about, and for that I’m grateful.  In response to my good fortune, I’ll try not to take myself so seriously.  What, after all, does it matter?