In many ways the charm of living in Charm City is that, at heart, it's a small town. You get to see politics up close and personal. You get to see neighborhood battles in action, and to understand how those battles affect the local economy and the local zeitgeist.
And sometimes, you get to see a tempest in a honpot.
The way Southerners use "y'all," and Pittsburghers use "yoons" and "yins," and lots of other people around the country use their own spicy local locutions, Baltimoreans use "hon." Not only a waitress but a meter maid and a plumber and a teacher and a nurse and an oyster-shucker at Faidley's and even a cop will often end their address to you with the familiar term of endearment, whether they're endeared to you or not. They might be pleading, they might be pontificating, they might be greeting, they might be scheming, they might be smiling, they might be looking daggers. But wherever you go, you will hear yourself called "hon."
Many of us find it charming, and there was even a campaign years ago to have "Welcome to Baltimore, Hon" be the official city motto. Whatever you think of the little word, it's part of our patrimony.
Enter Denise Whiting.
Columnist Dan Rodricks can explain why we're not happy. The Sun's editorial board can explain why we're not happy. And the hundreds of people chiming in on bulletin boards and forums all across town can explain why we're not happy -- none, perhaps, better than this reader signed GA Hammond :
And soon there shall be a large, ornate gate at the intersection of Falls Rd. and 36th St. It shall be contructed with empty Natty Boh cans and form the shape of two beehive hairdo's twisted at the top to join them. It shall signal the entrance to the magical kingdom of "Hon-den". A magnificently large mechanical pink flamingo shall greet you at the gate and direct you to the Whiting Welcome Center where you can buy your Denise Dollars, the only currency accepted on the Avenue, Hon. At 3pm each day, the merchants that have earned the right to remain on what used to be a public street come out, face toward the intersection of Roland and 36th, fall to their knees and chant HON over and over until it sounds like a swarm of bees looking for their hive. On special occasions, Denise herself will appear from the eye of the flamingo attached to her building and wave menacingly err.. gratefully to all her parsonage.
The End.
Credit where credit is due -- Whiting was one of the first merchants in Hampden to see the potential of the scrappy neighborhood, and she was one of the driving forces behind the Big Hair Contest and its outgrowth (oops -- sorry), the annual HonFest. That's why, despite her decidedly rightwing politics, well advertised, I still believed in supporting her and her enterprises. She was a local economic engine.
But here I draw the line. There are lots of other economic engines in Hampden. You don't own the word "hon," Ms. Whiting, no matter your twisted logic. That's why I signed the Boycott Cafe Hon petition and am urging other crusaders for justice to do likewise.
Sign, hon!
