They call me Mister Simmonds

One of the pieces in the Globe and Mail that my wife and I both enjoy reading is the ‘moral dilemmas’ advice column authored every Friday by David Eddie. And one of his recent columns has caused quite a division of opinion, judging from the letters to the editor. Mind you, so did a column from Slate magazine about whether it was sporting to wear flip flops in the city’s summer heat; so you have to take these things with a grain of salt.

The column replied to a reader who thought it highly inappropriate that one family in his neighbourhood insisted that their children address adults by their surnames, such as “Mr. Flintstone” and “Mrs. Rubble.” The reader thought it far too formal, especially in a neighbourhood where everyone else operated by different rules.

The advice that the reader got was essentially that Mr. Eddie was cool with the first name calling, but opted to support the family that wished to use the formalities, as it was entitled to its own views and, after all, they were simply trying to ensure that an appropriate tone of respect to one’s elders was maintained.

I admit there are different ways of coming at the problem. However, having turned 60 in a world run by thumbs, earphones, vowel-less texts and podcasts that is largely foreign to me, the last thing I really want to hear is some 17-year-old coming up to me during a visit and asking “So Dave, wanna drive down to the store to buy some batteries for my iPhone/iPad/iPod”? There is a modicum of dignity and respect that I need to preserve that serves to disguise my slowness of wit and absence of technical competence. Apart from the fact that I just yearn to tell the youngster that the store is only half a kilometre down the road and can actually be reached in a 10 minute expedition by foot, and that the batteries should not be needed while we are visiting face to face, I find that I resent the presumptuous familiarity in the question.

The way I was raised—as my mother will stoutly confirm—is to call someone “Mr.” unless and until invited to use a more familar term. So what really irks me is not just the standard operating procedure of easy familiarty assumed by my 17-year old visitor, but also customer service representatives around the globe. “So Dave, how can we help you with that billing plan” is enough to set my teeth on edge, coming as it does after passing through the switchboard menu and heading down countless telephonic cul de sacs. The opportunity to let loose with a snide remark has to be weighed against how badly I will need the co-operation of the peson who is being snided against; so that I will often have to just bite my tongue. But every once in a while, I let loose. “Dave, eh? Tell me, have we been introduced to one another socially before…No, I didn’t think so, so it’s Mr. Simmonds to you until I say otherwise. And by the way, no I don’t want to buy $25,000 of life insurance, no questions asked.”

Who do I blame for this lapse into informality? If I had to point one figure, I’d point it at radio hosts like the late Peter Gzowski, who always got guests to call him “Peter,” thereby inducing an artificial familiarity all the way down the line. It’s still the same at places like CJBQ, where people hang on to the line to be introduced as “Don from Foxboro.”

But there’s a twist to all this familiarity stuff. Maybe it’s my grey hair, but I can be walking down the main street of, say, Wellington, when I come across a passel of punk-influenced teenagers with skateboards, body jewellery, purple tinged hair and black T-shirts who will be practising their maneouvres on the sidewalk where I am about to walk. Bristling for a confrontation, I am usually met by a parting of the waves and a few respectful murmurings of “good afternoon, sir” and “nice day, sir.” I get hot under the collar—how dare they call me “sir”—until I realize that I am being an out and out hypocrite. What do I want them to call me, since they don’t know either my first or last names? What better alternative than the one they have opted for? Deep down, I just want to be treated with respect—respect for the senior in me, if not the respect granted to the decrepit.

But I can’t pinpoint any social trend that shows a decline in politeness, as my punk encounters prove. So call me an old fart without a leg to stand on. Social norms are changing, harmlessly, and I should just move along with the times. Yessir, there are lots of real issues to get grumpy about, so why should I get in a sweat over this one?

dsimmonds@wellingtontimes.ca