Calling women ‘love’ can be less endearment than insult

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jun/25/calling-women-love-endearment-insult

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Growing up in 1970s Manchester, it was entirely normal to be called “love” by a stranger – if the stranger in question was an ageing shopkeeper or bus driver. It was just like a little pat on the head, a quick “mind how you go” while they counted your change. But lately, I’ve begun to notice that I’m no longer called “love” by older people, but by younger ones – and my growing irritation with these faux endearments is nothing to do with my resentment of ageing, or a desire to be referred to as “ma’am”. I find, in fact, that I’m bristling at the disrespectful rudeness of some 20-year-old lad invoking an endearment, when I’m certain it’s not meant affectionately.

Earlier this week I was on the train, reading the paper, when a young bloke got on and hurled himself into the seat next to me, sitting down on my coat. “Scuse me, love,” he barked, elbowing me as he turned on his iPad. Having Lady Bracknell somewhere in my DNA, I glared at him. “Sorry, love, is there a problem?” he said aggressively.

When they wouldn’t say such things to an older man, I don’t see why women should accept younger men calling us 'love'

There was a huge problem. My rage at being called “love” by this oaf wasn’t because he was a stranger, or because I dislike the word itself – when my boyfriend says it, I find it charming. It was first because it was used as a dismissive insult – the way male drivers snarl “mate” during a road-rage incident, the coward’s way of saying “dickhead” – and second, because I was a woman, older than him, and he was patronising me. Reducing me to a “love” added me to the ranks of doddery old ladies, woolly-permed no-marks getting in the way of his thrusting, crucial, game-hero existence.

Yes, this is traditionally the part where readers are invited to fill in their own “humourless feminist” remarks, and tweet “Jesus, get a grip!” But in many ways it is a feminist issue. When they wouldn’t say such things to an older man, presumably finding him more worthy of respect, I don’t see why women should accept younger, ruder men calling us “love”. In this context, it’s a term of casual, thoughtless dismissal, a less transatlantic form of “basic bitch”. And it’s sexist, without doubt, whenever it’s used to put a woman in her place.

Similarly, “sweetheart”, and “darling” are often used as reminders that a man is letting us off the hook – a threatening “don’t go doing it again, all right, darling?” used by barrow-boy Christian Greys everywhere to establish exactly where we stand in the power dynamic.

Related: Calm down dear: the dark side of ‘emotional intelligence’ | Dean Burnett

Saying “don’t call me love” may sound like a phrase lifted directly from the I-Spy book of Andrea Dworkin, a wild overreaction to a simple, passing endearment. But why should I allow it – why should any of us? – when its usage is aggressive, contemptuous and at best glib?

Recently at work, a young guy walked ahead of me through the door and let it swing back in my face. “Sorry, love,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You will be,” I thought. The door swing I could forgive. But that mocking “love” still rankles. It’s all about the tone.

Because of course “love” can be used warmly. I have no doubt that plenty of older people find it pleasing coming from a younger person. And from an older one, it’s generally more than acceptable. (My favourite “love” user is Paul O’Grady, who says it with both affection and light sarcasm, but that only works when you happen to have Lily Savage’s gin-marinated voice.)

But used by some pumped-up lad to assert his superiority, his right to take over your space, and his lack of sexual interest in you, “love” turns any woman into an elderly fusspot, a hindrance. I told the guy on the train what was wrong, seeing as he’d asked if there was a problem. “I don’t like being called ‘love’ by a total stranger,” I said. He shook his head and muttered, “If you don’t like it, move.” I didn’t like it – I moved. And I seethed for the rest of the morning. Because used in the wrong context, “love” really is a four-letter word.