Pronouns And Honorifics

My apologies about the lack of updates to Patreon, I've been having a pretty serious mental health crisis for the last two years. There will be a detailed update on the book (yes, it's still going!) this week, and a discussion about reward teirs.  In the meantime, please enjoy this short I remembered and managed to type out!

(As usual, All names have been changed to protect people’s privacy)

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So years ago, I worked at a garden center with an older man I'll call Sam, because he looked exactly like Yosemite Sam if he had joined the AARP. Sam was a Good-Old-Fashioned Cowboy, but he was also pushing 70 and had to give up the farm so he was working at the garden center because he couldn't afford to retire. Unironically went about saying things like "Dagnabbit" and "Aw, Fiddlesticks".

Now, I'm nonbinary, and due to being God's Favorite Idiot I won the genetic lottery and actually look it. This is mostly due to having an unusually high number of neanderthal ancestors, but that’s a different can of hominids. I managed to get a barrel chest, big heavy jaw, broad shoulders and defined musculature with very smooth skin, fat tits and the kind of thighs you can base a major religion on. I dress for maximum confusion, and friends, Sam was CON-FUCKING-PUZZLED. Downright discombobulated. Bamboozled, even.

This was, unfortunately, extremely funny. He had no problem asking people wildly personal questions and I definitely agitated him, but he was an old man with arthritis and a bad hip two inches shorter than my own hobbitesque stature, and I have a 200lb deadlift, I genuinely could not find the man threatening.

On our third day working together, Sam and I were unloading a truck of roses and he noticed my "They/Them" pin on my hat.

"Who's They?" he asked, pointing at the pin.

"It's me! I use They/Them pronouns, instead of he or she."

Sam stopped, stared up at me from where I'd been handing him rose bushes, bristled his mustache and went "...What in TARNATION are you talking about?"

"Okay, so. When you go home tonight, and you're telling your wife about today, and you talk about our manager Sally, you say 'She called us at 5 AM to unload a truck!'. When you tell your wife about me, you would say 'At least Gallus showed up and *they* helped me unload the truck.'. Like that."

More confused bristling. "... How many of you is there?"

"Oh I don't think God would make the same mistake twice." I said.

He glared, eyebrows very nearly meeting his mustache.

"Just the one." I clarified.

"So You're You."

"Yes."

"Then who's the rest of them?"

"...'They' can be singular or plural, depending on context. It's been like that since shakespeare."

This satisfied him for about five minutes worth of trying not to get scratched by roses, before he stopped again, trying to articulate his question while waving a double delight in each hand.

"But is you- I mean- Supposing that- I mean if I had to- Dagnabbit, is you a Sir or a Ma'am or What?"

"What. Definitely a What." I nodded. It was 6AM on a rainy Monday and I was getting my arms mangled by rose bushes so I was not in the mood to be a patient public educator, so I was perhaps being more of a bitch than really necessary, but I am only human.

This did not please him. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO CALL YOU." He wailed.

"You can call me 'Your Majesty." I said.

This, for some reason, satisfied him.

"Fair Enough." he declared, and we were able to finish unloading the truck with the usual conversation of complaining about our shitass manager, who woke us both up at 5 AM and then didn’t even show up, despite promising us Donuts.

Later that day, another Gender Nonconforming person came in. She was about 6 foot and wearing a lovely maxi dress and earrings and had just started Estrogen so she also had prominent stubble and was still growing out her crew-cut. Since we were supposed to greet customers, Sam siddled on up to her, gave her a long appraising look and I felt my blood freeze because while I can’t find Sam any more intimidating than a pomeranian, that’s not the case for everyone and I was certain he was about to commit a verbal war crime.  I dropped the fern I was repotting and ran for the entrance.

Before I could get to them however, he straightened up, opened his fool mouth, looked her in the eye and said:

"How may I help you, Your Majesty?"

-With the utmost sincerity I’d ever heard out of the man. Not a hint of irony or malice.

She was DELIGHTED. She followed Sam all around the greenhouse, putting every plant he named in her cart until she ended up buying a small jungle's worth of houseplants and complimenting Sam on his Rodeo Winner belt buckle, which pleased him to no end.

Tiffany ended up coming back like once a week (which is why I know her name, pronouns and about the hormones) to bother Sam with houseplant questions and gush about how helpful he was to our manager and talk shit with me.

I'm still email-list friends with them. She just got married and after 7 years Sam has finally gotten the hang of Singular They but still calls us "Your Majesties."

Happy 77th Sam.