Just call me ma'am

I give up. I have finally accepted reality. I will be ma'amed on the phone at least 60 percent of the time until I die. And if I keep getting angry and frustrated about it, that time will come sooner than I expect. So call me ma'am. It's okay with me.

I have been on testosterone for over 12 years, and my voice is as low as it's going to get. It's not as low as I originally hoped it would be (I wanted Barry White, not Betty White). But it's not high, either. It's not the pitch that's the problem--it's the expressiveness.

I-don't-talk-like-this. I ta-aalk like thiii-iss.

I enunciate my words. I sound my "esses" and my "tees." I draw out words and move my voice all over the place. It's habit. It's a lifetime of talking like I really mean it, like I take every word seriously, like every sound is fraught with emotion and deep, dark hidden meaning. And it reflects a "feminine" speech pattern.

I don't call and say, "I'd-like-to-make-a-reservation." I call and say, "I'd like to make a reservaaaationnn." And the person who answers the phone says, "For how many, ma'am?"

When I first started transition, I was livid every time it happened. And the poor person on the other end of the line, who was just trying to follow the "sir-or-ma'am" script that's mandatory for everyone in the service industry, would be the target of my wrath.

During one call, the man I was talking to asked me my name. I said, "Matt."

He said, "I've never heard of a woman named Matt before."

Neither have I, you idiot--doesn't that tell you something? I wanted to say it, but I didn't. Instead, I said, "It's Matt, short for Matthew--M-A-T-T-H-E-W!"

Then I hung up.

In another instance, I called an agency, identified myself at Matt Kailey, and asked who I needed to speak to about a particular issue. The woman said, "I don't know, ma'am. I'll have to check for you, ma'am."

I said, "My name is Matt."

She said, "Hold on a second, ma'am. I'm checking for you."

I said, "My name is Matt! Short for Matthew!"

She said, "The person you need to speak to isn't in, ma'am."

I said, "WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP CALLING ME MA'AM! MY NAME IS MATTHEW KAILEY! MATTHEW!"

She said, "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Then I hung up.

When I call to ask about one of my bills--a bill for Matthew Kailey--the person who answers sometimes says, "And is this Mrs. Kailey?"

Umm, no--that's my mom. And if she was still alive, I'd have her come over there and beat you up.

Even the guy at the Subway drive-thru called me ma'am over the speaker, then fell all over himself apologizing when I pulled up to the window.

Almost 13 years later, it still happens. It happened last week. And that's when I gave up. That's when I didn't get mad. That's when I finally decided that I was going to pick my battles and this wasn't going to be one of them.

I know who I am. That's all that matters. So go ahead--call me ma'am. Everyone else does.