Published Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Mr. or Mrs.

While introducing a child to a group of adults recently, I referred to the women as "Ms. Susan, Ms. Lindsay", etc. The conversation among the eight of us, aged mid twenties to mid sixties, revealed that the majority of us were raised to offer a title for any adult we addressed.

One of the women is an elementary school teacher who instructs her students to be respectful and polite to her and to others, requiring appropriate language such as using "may I" rather than "can I." How awesome it must be to see her young charges being polite and using courteous and educated language.

When I was a child if I were to ever address an adult by his or her first name I'm certain there would be quite a price to pay. My parents weren't slappers or swatters as a rule, but I'm pretty sure they would have mastered the art of slapping and swatting with impeccable accuracy right then and there. I don't know because I never tried them on this rule.

I'm called either Ms. Kathy or Momma Bo by little ones I'm close to. It is familiar but also respectful and I prefer it over having a child address me as if they were an adult. Still today it is ingrained in me to address older people as Mr. or Ms., as if mom is looking down from Heaven and reminding me.

I am uncomfortable addressing people much older than myself by anything less than Mr., Ms., Miss or Mrs. As long as the name is preceded by a title, either is proper protocol according to the book of "mom" but on those few occasions where my elder insisted on my calling them by their given name, I found it difficult to not add the required title.

Mom's reminders for her kids often came through clenched teeth and having raised two of my own, I certainly understand that now. As the youngest of four, I pretty much had it easy and just had to follow the lead of the others, who were "yes sirring" and "yes mamming" their way to mom's heart. It never occurred for me to do otherwise.

Except for one, my aunt Adele. She was never "Ms." Adele, which confused me for quite some time. Aunt Adele wasn't my aunt at all, but I was grown before I realized it. It dawned on me one day that she was the only Jewish member of our immediate family and also had a last name that didn't match anyone else's. Further investigation revealed that she was not our aunt, but mom's best friend, a giggling, roundish woman who lovingly pinched and then shook our young cheeks every time she came around. Her perfume arrived about ten minutes ahead of her and lingered for days after she left. We loved her and thought her to be the most exotic person in our whole family.

Then there was Mrs. Shoes. I was in elementary school and she was our librarian. I thought she had a wonderful name and I delighted in saying, "Mizshoes" when calling her.

Again, more confusion when my mom said her friend Ms. Leah was coming to visit. I had no idea who Ms. Leah was but when the school librarian showed up at our front door, I realized she not only had a first name but her last name wasn't Shoes at all. It was Hughes.

"All the children call me Ms. Shoes," she told me, smiling her librarian smile, assuring me that it was OK that I'd had her name wrong all along. What a sweet lady, and one I could always respect.