One of my guys I am particularly fond of, and who is working in individual weekly, tends to call me “dude” when he gets excited about what he is relaying to me.
I really don’t care to be called, “dude.”
The fact that I need to wear pants, and be mildly non-sexual is irritating. Although I don’t feel any particular way about lesbians, I don’t care to appear as one. And “dude” seems to deny my ultimate femininity.
S (the husband) points out for the younger set, this is a type of honorific. I need to give it up. So I try to do so.
But last Thursday, we were in group. Mr. R. takes what I’m saying to another guy that doesn’t get my point, and says, “No, that’s not what Ms. M. means, she means….”
And I feel unaccountably recognized. I know this is silly, but I am so relieved that he knows who I am…
Although I’ve never been Ms. M. before, I’ve always used my first name. Names are so important. I am who I am. Am I ‘Dude?’
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This is Prison blog from the point of view of Mental Health staff. Something I can't find other places on the net... My boss told me the story my second week of work. He had the experience after 20+ years of working in the prisons, where he noticed how lovely the razor wire looked, sparking in the sunlight. He believed it indicated some sickness in his soul.
Confidentiality
Just a note to say I’m in a position of intense confidentiality from all sides. My patients are foremost of concern, and at this time, I’m not so focused on their stories as my own. Identifying details will be changed where the intention of the story remains. To further protect them and myself, I choose not to put accurate identifying details of my own. My children, grandchildren and husband depend on this. Although I don’t walk around believing I am important enough to be targeted, my naïveté is no excuse for jeopardizing their safety.
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