The other day a very angry man called me the awful word that must not be spoken, which women especially detest being called.
So, I returned home and took Russell for what I hoped would be a cleansing, calming walk while Thomas went to buy the lug nuts.
And that’s when I saw a guy in a pick-up truck yelling at a woman who was at the stop sign in front of him, not moving her car out into a long line of traffic quickly enough for the guy. She had a stop sign. The other cars didn’t. She had to wait. The guy behind her honked and big-arm-gestured at the woman who had no choice but to not drive out into the middle of a line of cars.
“Hey!” I yelled. “She can’t do anything. It’s not a four way stop!” And that’s when the guy called me the awful name, immediately. He instantly pulled out the nuclear bomb of swear words, which I found a bit funny because it was so unimaginatively over the top. I just couldn’t believe we reached that stage of name calling so quickly.
What’s left to say after you say that?
So, then I said: “You’re in my neighbourhood,” like I was a mob lady boss. “And you come in here acting like that. She can’t do anything!”
Later, of course, I thought about a whole lot of other funny, better things I could have said — zingers — and also wondered if I could have involved the gigantic bull mastiff standing beside me, gazing back toward our house. But, he was just a big cuddle bug preoccupied with returning home as quickly as possible to lie down again, which is how he spends his walking time, sitting down and looking homeward.
Very soon, the woman progressed through the stop sign and down the road, and the guy in the truck roared away.
I waved goodbye. He gave me the finger. Yawn! Who cares about getting the finger after being called you-know-what?
Which brings me to “ding-a-ling” and “nincompoop.” Do you remember those words? Brent and I brought them back into our vocabulary a few years ago, as a kinder, amusing way of expressing frustration.
“She’s a real ding-a-ling,” we might have said. Or, better yet: He’s behaving like a ding-a-ling, or a nincompoop. Or what about that Scalawag and his cockamamie plans? There’s also lunkhead and fopdoodle.
Then we laughed at how funny and cute we were being.
See how gentle that all is? Even though, yes, yes, it is categorizing someone as something…but it also creates a little burst of affection for the person you’re a little bit mad at. It’s difficult to be truly angry when using the word ding-a-ling, or one of the other classics like smarty pants or bossy boots.
I wonder what the man in the truck — who needs his mouth washed out with soap — would have said if I had replied: “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a smarty pants and behaving like quite the young ruffian!”
Maybe he would have laughed, or maybe he would have been afraid that he’d insulted the Biggest Weirdo in the World, and who knows what was going to go down next?
Which brings me to being named Karen. (Can you imagine if the guy in the truck found out the woman yelling at him to behave in traffic was actually a Karen?)
I can’t adequately express the chilling effect the whole “Karen Thing” has had on my willingness to ask for the manager, comment on a random social media post, provide my name on a phone call to any service provider, introduce myself to someone new, order a coffee or remind someone that the lowest price is the law.
There’s a Facebook group for the quite-nice gym I belong to where everyone complains about everything. Class sizes, volume of music, new instructors, old instructors, the roll out of the new pool, the temperature of the hot tub, people who leave hot yoga early, the availability of pickle ball courts, parking, and so much more.
Almost all of the time, those not currently complaining call the current complainers Karen. I have not yet had the courage to complain about this, for obvious reasons. And honestly, I think it’s up to the caring non-Karens to point out the problem with making a somewhat common name one of the worst insults (but not the very worst!) around.
I’ve had lovely people tell me, “But you’re not a Karen, Karen.”
Or, they tell me that when their friends use the name slur, they tell them that there are some good Karens, and assure me I’m one of them. (I guess they don’t know I yell at people from the sidewalk). But, my-friends-who-aren’t-named-Karen, this doesn’t actually help. It just plays into the myth.
We all know there are good Karens because it’s just a name that was clearly quite common back in the 60’s and that a bunch of our well-meaning mothers — who could never have anticipated the coming backlash — chose, along with our barely paying attention dads. If it’s anything, the name is a bit nerdy. My big thick glasses in grade three were predetermined.
But, in 40 years or so most of us will have died off and there will be very few Karens roaming the earth, feeling uncomfortable.
What if we just stopped using other people’s first names as insults?
And what if we didn’t say the worst thing as the first thing?
We can still call out people’s ridiculousness, but we can be more civil, creative and even adorable when doing it. Pull out some of the old insult chestnuts like doo doo head, bird brain and of course, silly goose, and see what they feel like. I’m guessing they would have a de-escalating effect. There are also seasonal favourites, like cotton-headed ninny-muggins which I try to memorize every time I watch Elf. Often, I have to look it up because it’s so good but so long.
It matters how we talk to each other, even strangers, and about each other. We don’t have to be such nashgabs and meany-pants. Especially this time of the year.
