Day 138: Don't Call Me "Sir"

Three times today, someone referred to me as “sir.” Look, I've been called a lot of things, and many of them weren't good. Some of them were true, some weren't. Some I deserved, some, eh. Some things I've been called don't really affect me. Others grind on my nerves. Being called "sir" is one of those nerve-scrapping things. 

Logically, I know the individuals who called me "sir" today were only being polite, which given how many people I’ve witnessed demonstrate poor to no manners lately, I greatly appreciate. (This includes you, Mr. Sailor-mouthed Fisherman Guy standing in the Wal-Mart checkout line who couldn’t close his trap long enough the night before Mother’s Day last week to stop dropping massive waves of f-bombs one after another during a particularly intense conversation with your buddy on the finer aspects of the perfect catfish hole, this despite you being surrounded by children, elderly shoppers, and many others who didn’t share your infinity for the f-word, no matter how damn many catfish there was in that there hole.) Still, despite my appreciation for respect and cordiality, I despise being called “sir.” Hate it. Beyond hate.

I’m not a sir. Not anywhere close to it. In fact, in my opinion, no one deserve the title. It’s an elitist word, and I’d just as soon no one ever associated me with it again. I know this is petty and anal and probably stupid to even waste words on, but I’m serious. Being called sir may not exactly be offensive, but it doesn’t go down well with me.

Maybe it’s because I wear a suit and tie to work every day that the word gets lobbed my way. People see a tie and they attach greater meaning to it than it deserves. Being called “sir” sure doesn’t happen as often on the weekends when I’m just wearing shorts, a hat, black rock concert T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The same women at the gas station who say, “Thank you, sir” when I’m buying coffee Monday through Friday don’t see me in the same light on Sunday mornings when I stop in for the same coffee before a golf game. Those mornings, it’s just “thank you.” And I prefer it that way.

Being called “sir” makes me feel old. Makes me feel separated and removed. It makes me feel as if I’m supposed to represent something I don’t. It makes me cringe. Somehow, “sir” makes me feel detached, as if I’m no longer a part of the norm. It’s as if I’m being viewed as if I’ve achieved something significant. I haven’t. Really. Trust me. I haven’t brought warring nations together in peace. I haven’t sat in prison for decades because of my fight for racial equality. I haven’t painted masterpieces or composed music that induced tears. I haven’t invented surgical instruments that have saved countless lives. I haven’t constructed edifices where people join together in faith. In no way am I a sir.

Handing me the taco in the drive-thru lane that I just bought from you doesn’t make me a sir.

Depositing a check in my account at your bank does not make me a sir.

Buying dog food in your lane at the grocery store does not make me a sir.

Opening a door in an act of kindness as you pass by does not me a sir.

Here’s my positive spin on this: If you must use the word “sir,” save it for those you really, really deem to deserve it. That way you’ll preserve the honor and dignity of the word. You’ll give it the heft it deserves. You’ll ensure the luster it deserves is maintained. You’ll make
“sir” a word or prestige. Please, don’t waste it on me. Me you can call dude, kid, man, big daddy, B, brotha, fella, weirdo . . . whatever it takes. Just not sir.