A Choson Man In America

The publication of Yeen Myung Chang’s autobiography is a noteworthy occasion for those of us who desire to make stories of earlier Korean immigrants more available not only to our young readers of Korean ancestry in America, but also to the general readers in broader American society.

The Chang memoir contributes to this narrative in a number of ways. First, it is very rare to find an autobiography written by Korean immigrants who came to America between 1903 and 1905 to work on Hawaiian sugar plantations. Most of these workers were illiterate. More importantly, there was not a strong established tradition among ordinary Koreans to leave written records of their life. Second, Chang’s account offers a glimpse of the voyage that brought Korean workers to Hawaii. Third, Chang participated in the Korean independence movement in America and adds details to that period. Fourth, Chang converted to Christianity shortly before coming to America and his experience corroborates the tendency of these immigrants to adopt Christianity. Fifth, Chang was an activist in the Korean American community, an adventurous traveler and an early entrepreneur.
by Robert Hyung Chan Kim, Professor Emeritus, Western Washington University

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We’re transcriptionists, not audio engineers, but Audacity is a free program that can be a GREAT help. Here’s how to reduce the background noise in an old recording using Audacity.

As you have experienced, we usually receive files with A LOT OF BACKGROUND NOISE. So Beth told me about using Audacity to reduce the background noise, and I checked it and found it SUPER HELPFUL. I hope you can try this, and then you’ll see—hear—how much better the recording sounds! 

So here’s what the file looks like in Audacity:

Change your cursor to the magnifying glass:

Zoom in on your file with the magnifying glass. When I click on that file with the cursor as a magnifying glass, I get this–I clicked about six times:

Those long, low segments are your background noise. See how fuzzy they are? What you want to do is get a sample of the background noise. So change your cursor back to the I-bar and highlight the first seconds of that fuzzy stuff. 

You want to get a sample of the background noise. So I change my cursor back to the I-bar and highlight the first seconds of that fuzzy stuff. 

Now go to Effect, Noise Reduction, and use your selection as a noise sample. Click on Get Noise Profile. It just takes a second for Audacity to collect the noise profile sample. 

Go back to your audio file and press Ctrl+A to select the whole audio file.

Go back to Effect–> Noise Reduction and click OK. It will take the noise measured in that sample and subtract it from the whole file.

It doesn’t take too long to remove the hums and hisses; the result is AMAZING. 

Give it a try the next time you come across a file with some background noise, and let us know how it went!

Thousands of Lumbee Indians, members of the largest tribe east of the Mississippi, once lived in the neighborhoods of Upper Fells Point and Washington Hill

Isabel Spiegel

October 5, 2020

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/native-american-community-baltimore-reclaims-its-history-180975948/

One chilly March afternoon in 2018, Ashley Minner, a community artist, folklorist, professor and enrolled member of the Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina, gathered the elders together for a luncheon at Vinny’s, an Italian eatery on the outskirts of Baltimore. The group crowded around a family-style table, eager to chat with friends after a long winter. Over a dessert of cannoli and Minner’s homemade banana pudding, she got down to business to show the group what she had found—a 1969 federally commissioned map of the Lumbee Indian community in Baltimore as it stood in its heyday.

Her discovery was met with bewildered expressions.

“The elders said, ‘This is wrong. This is all wrong.’ They couldn’t even fix it,” Minner recalls from her seat at a large oak desk in Hornbake Library’s Special Collections room. When she speaks, she embodies a down-to-earth, solid presence, with an air of humility that her University of Maryland students will tell you is how she conducts her classes. That day, she wore no jewelry or makeup, just a T-shirt, jeans and a bright purple windbreaker.

At the luncheon, plates were cleared but questions remained. The elders drafted a rough sketch of the neighborhood based on their recollections. Now it was Minner’s turn to be perplexed. Though she has lived all her life in the Baltimore area, nothing looked remotely familiar.

“It wasn’t until my Aunt Jeanette took me to Baltimore Street, and pointed and said, ‘This is where I used to live,’ that I realized the reason I wasn’t getting it was because it’s a park now. The whole landscape has been transformed.”

Baltimore may be famous for John Waters, Edgar Allan Poe, and steamed crabs, but very few people are aware that there was once a sizeable population of American Indians, the Lumbee tribe, who lived in the neighborhoods of Upper Fells Point and Washington Hill. By the 1960s, there were so many Native Americans living in the area that many Lumbee affectionately referred to it as “The Reservation.” In the early 1970s, this part of Baltimore underwent a massive urban renewal development project and many Lumbee residences were destroyed, including most of the 1700 block of East Baltimore Street. “Almost every Lumbee-occupied space was turned into a vacant lot or a green space,” Minner says. The population of “The Reservation” continued to decrease between 1970 and 1980, when thousands of Baltimoreans moved out of the city to Baltimore County, including many Lumbee.

Now, Minner, age 37, is embarking on a mission to share their stories with the world. In conjunction with her Ph.D. research and with the support of the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, she is creating an archive devoted to her community, including a more accurate map of how the neighborhood used to be, so that their contributions to the city’s cultural legacy will be rendered visible to history.

The Lumbee are the largest tribe east of the Mississippi and the ninth largest in the country. They derive their name from the Lumbee River that flows through tribal territory in Robeson, Cumberland, Hoke and Scotland counties of North Carolina. They descend from Iroquoian, Siouan and Algonquian speaking people, who settled in the area and formed a cohesive community, seeking refuge from disease, colonial warfare and enslavement. Some intermarried with non-Indigenous peoples, including whites and blacks. After World War II, thousands of Lumbee moved north to cities like Baltimore, Philadelphia and Detroit, seeking work and eager to escape Jim Crow segregation. They traded the back-breaking labor of sharecropping for jobs in factories, construction and the service industry. Many also became small business owners.

The Lumbee have fought unsuccessfully for full federal recognition from the U.S. government since 1888. Congress passed the Lumbee Act in 1956, which recognized the tribe as Native American. However, it did not give them full federal recognition, which grants access to federal funds and other rights. A bi-partisan bill called the Lumbee Recognition Act is now pending before Congress.

The historically mixed-race heritage of the Lumbee has played a role in the government’s denial of recognition, and marginalization at the federal level has a trickle-down effect. Many Lumbee in Baltimore, like members of other tribes living in urban areas across the country, suffer from cases of “mistaken identity.”

“I’ve been called Asian, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian—everything but what I am,” Minner says. “Then you tell people that you’re Indian, and they say, ‘No, you’re not.’ It does something to you psychologically to have people not accept you for who you are day in and day out.” Minner is Lumbee on her mother’s side and Anglo-American on her father’s side. Her husband, Thomas, is Lumbee and African American.

When the elders said their goodbyes at the restaurant, they promised to meet again to help Minner with her research. Over the weeks and months that followed, Minner and some of the elders revisited the streets of Upper Fells Point. As with Proust’s madeleine, sometimes all it took was sitting on a particular porch or standing on a familiar street corner for the floodgates of memory to open.

“It’s phenomenological. You re-embody the space and you re-remember,” Minner explains.

They pointed out the phantoms of once-upon-a-time buildings. Sid’s Ranch House, a famous Lumbee hangout, is now a vacant lot. A former Lumbee carryout restaurant has been replaced by Tacos Jalisco. South Broadway Baptist Church at 211 S. Broadway still stands and serves as one of the last anchor points for the Lumbee, who remain in the city.

Minner’s deep dive into Lumbee history started with her own family. While still in high school, she recorded her grandfather’s memories of Baltimore and North Carolina. “I guess it’s that fear of loss and knowing that people aren’t around forever,” Minner said, reflecting on what prompted her to document his stories. Elaine Eff, a former Maryland state folklorist and one of Minner’s mentors, said that Minner is in a unique position to document the Lumbee. “An outsider just wouldn’t understand the nuances of the culture,” she said. “Ashley straddles both worlds.”

By collaborating with the elders, Minner is offering them the opportunity to decide how their personal and collective history will be presented.

“I began working on this project [thinking] there were no records,” Minner says, surrounded by boxes of old photographs and stacks of phone directories. Preeminent Lumbee historian Malinda Maynor Lowery, who sat on Minner’s dissertation committee, reassured Minner that she could find proof of the Lumbee’s extensive presence in Baltimore. After all, they had home addresses and telephone numbers like every other Baltimorean. Lowery advised Minner to look through census records, newspaper articles and city directories in local archives.

After examining multiple articles and the census records, Minner discovered that pinpointing the exact number of Lumbee in Baltimore during the 1950s and 60s when the community was at its peak was more complex than she had anticipated. According to the researcher who produced the 1969 map, John Gregory Peck, the census records at that time only distinguished between “whites” and “non-whites.” The Lumbee were classified as white; for outsiders, Lumbee have continually defied racial categorization.

“We run the gamut of skin colors, eye colors and hair textures,” Minner says. “When the Lumbee came to Baltimore, Westerns were all the rage. But we didn’t look like the Indians on TV.” Despite many success stories, the Lumbee community in Baltimore has struggled with illiteracy, poverty and criminal incidents. Minner acknowledges that historical accounts tend to highlight the problems the Lumbee have faced but also emphasize the darker aspects of their story. “The older articles are often really negative. It’s always about a knife fight or a gun fight,” Minner says, referring to news clippings she has compiled, some of which feature crimes allegedly perpetrated by Lumbee.

In addition to materials sourced from city and state archives, Minner’s new Lumbee archive will include oral histories and contributions from elders’ personal collections. She is quick to point out that acting as both a tribal member and scholar can make determining “how much to sanitize the ugly things” a challenge.

The Lumbee archive will be housed at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. Minner’s compilation created with Lumbee elders will form the backbone of the collection. She believes the collection could take as long as five years to assemble. A digital version of the Lumbee archive will be accessible through the Baltimore American Indian Center in addition to UMBC, so that community members can conduct their own research. Elaine Eff also stressed the importance of the archive being widely known and accessible. “The fact that the archive is going to UMBC in Special Collections is significant,” Eff said. “It means that it can be a jumping-off point for other projects on the Lumbee.”

“I couldn’t do any of this on my own,” Minner says, as she opens a box of photos from the Baltimore News American archive. “Most of the elders are in their 70s, and they are the greatest resource available to anybody right now about what we had here.”

When she discovers a photo or an old newspaper clipping that corresponds with an elders’ story, Minner gets excited. “Many times they don’t know they’re in the archives. I’ll take pictures and show them what I found, like, ‘Look where you were living in 1958!’”

“This is sister Dosha,” Minner says, selecting a photo of a jovial, silver-haired woman presenting a pot of fish to the camera with the pride of a new grandparent. “She had a beautiful voice and her song was ‘How Great Thou Art.’” She picks another photo from the folder, featuring a taxidermy eagle posed menacingly behind three women who grasp opposite ends of a quilt as if preparing for the bird to nose-dive into the center. “That’s Alme Jones,” she says, pointing to an elder wearing oversized spectacles. “She was my husband’s grandmother.”

Next, Minner opens a massive R.L. Polk directory and begins searching for Lumbee names that correspond with addresses in Upper Fells Point. “In the 1950s, it’s still kind of a mix. We can see some Jewish names, Polish names.” She carefully turns the delicate pages, scanning the list of diminutive print. “There’s a Locklear. Here’s a Hunt,” she says. “As it gets into the 60s, all the names become Lumbee. There’s a Revels, Chavis…”

The Lumbee have a handful of common last names that make them easily distinguishable—to another Lumbee, at least. She finds the 1700 block of Baltimore Street, the heart of “The Reservation.”

“And that’s where my Aunt Jeanette lived, right there, on Irvine Place,” says Minner.

Jeanette W. Jones sits next to her niece on the couch at Jones’s home in Dundalk, Baltimore County. The side table is crowded with a collection of porcelain and glass angels. A white cross hanging in the doorway between the living room and kitchen says, “God Protect This Family.” Minner says Jones has been “front and center” in her research and a source of inspiration for the archive project.

“I told Ashley, you’ve got to know your people.” Jones speaks in a deep baritone, her Robeson County lilt adding bounce and verve to the words. She has a stern gaze which flickers warm when she laughs and an air of authority harking back to her days as an educator in the public-school system.

One of the many accounts of racial prejudice that Minner has recorded for the Lumbee archive features Jones. In 1957, a journalist and a photographer from Ebony Magazine were sent to document Lumbee of Baltimore—deemed “mysterious” by the magazine. Unbeknownst to Jones, a photo of her as a 14-year-old attending a youth dance was featured in the spread, with the caption, “Typical Indian girl.” The headline of the article read: “Mystery People of Baltimore: Neither red nor white nor black, strange “Indian” tribe lives in world of its own.”

Despite being a publication written and published by people of color, Minner points out that the tone of the article was derogatory. “They were trying to understand us within a racial binary where people can only be black or white. They probably thought, ‘Well they look black-adjacent, but we’re not sure.’”

Jones made it her mission when she directed the Indian Education program in the Baltimore Public School District to instill pride in Native students. She advocated for college scholarships for Native Americans, created an Indigenous Peoples library with books on Native cultures, and provided one-on-one tutoring for struggling students. She was equally determined to expose her niece to the richness of her Lumbee heritage. She took Minner to culture classes at the Baltimore American Indian Center, taught her traditional recipes, and invited her to Native American-themed field trips with her students.

When she graduated from the Maryland Institute College of Art with her BFA in fine art, Minner discovered she too had a passion for working with Lumbee youth. Jones groomed her niece to take over her job with Indian Education. Minner devoted 12 years to working in the school district. During that time, she also founded and directed a successful after-school art program for Native American youth and earned two master’s degrees. Eventually, the low pay and daily challenges of working as a community advocate began to affect her health. Minner felt guilty about quitting, but Jones encouraged her to move on and advance her career.

“I didn’t have kids. I had a family to help support me,” Minner says, settling back into her aunt’s plethora of sofa pillows. “A lot of things made it possible for me to spend that much time and give that much of myself. Most people in our community can’t. They’re just not in a position to.”

“She’s educating people beyond the classroom,” Jones says. “She’s surpassed me now.”

They lead the way to the “Indian room” of her home, as Jones calls it, aptly named for its assortment of Native American themed trinkets and traditional handicrafts. The mantelpiece is adorned with Hummel-esque statuettes of Plains women wearing buckskin dresses and feathered headbands. A bow and arrow are mounted on the wall, along with family photos and an oil painting of teepees. Heyman Jones, Jeanette Jones’s husband of four years, is watching TV. He wears a plaid flannel shirt and a red baseball cap with the Lumbee tribal insignia. At 82-years-old, he possesses the spirit and stride of a much younger man.

“He’s a newlywed,” Minner quips, as if to explain his boyish enthusiasm. “They go everywhere together. Wear matching outfits.”

“Mr. Heyman” grew up in North Carolina and moved to Baltimore as a young man to work at General Motors. He bounds out of the chair to show off a group photo of his family at his father’s house during Homecoming, when Lumbee gather together for barbecue, church hymns, a parade, a powwow and other activities.

“Mr. Heyman’s father was a famous singer,” Minner says.

“Would you like to hear one of his songs?” Mr. Heyman inquires, and after a resounding yes, he opens the sliding glass door to the backyard to retrieve a CD from the garage.

“He just went right out in the rain!” says Minner, shaking her head and smiling. Back inside, Mr. Heyman, his shoulders damp with rain, places the CD in the player and turns the volume up full blast. First, a tinny piano chord intro, then a swell of voices layered in perfect harmony. Finally, his father’s high tenor solo, bright and clear, vaults over the other singers as he belts out, “Lord, I’ve been a hardworking pilgrim.” The den in Dundalk is momentarily filled with the sounds of the beloved Lumbee church of his childhood in North Carolina.

“He always sang for the lord,” Mr. Heyman says, his voice choked with emotion as he remembers attending church with his father. “He was a deeply religious man. He’d be out working in the field, and if somebody passed away, they’d call him in to come sing at the funeral.”

Minner and Jones exchange a glance, as if they’ve heard this story many times before.

According to Minner, Mr. Heyman knows everyone, both in North Carolina and in Baltimore. He’s like a walking, talking family tree—an invaluable repository of knowledge about Lumbee family ties.

Jones and Minner no longer work in the public-school system, but Minner has discovered a different way to give back to Lumbee youth. She is creating a bridge between the past and the present, the seniors and the teens, through the power of collective memory.

“Our young people can be particularly unmoored,” Minner says. “There are all kinds of ways society makes you feel like you don’t belong. I think when you realize that your history is much deeper than what you knew, it gives you a different sense of belonging. I think this [archive] project could help with that. We are part of a long, rich history. We helped build this city. We helped develop the character it has now. It’s ours too.”

A version of the article was originally published by the Smithsonian Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage.

TIMES INSIDER

Why We’re Capitalizing Black

The Times has changed its style on the term’s usage to better reflect a shared cultural identity. Here’s what led to that decision.

Credit…The New York Times

By Nancy Coleman

July 5, 2020

Times Insider explains who we are and what we do, and delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how our journalism comes together.

The last time The New York Times made a sweeping call to capitalize how it referred to people of African ancestry was nearly a century ago.

W.E.B. Du Bois had started a letter-writing campaign asking publications, including The Times, to capitalize the N in Negro, a term long since eradicated from The Times’s pages. “The use of a small letter for the name of twelve million Americans and two hundred million human beings,” he once wrote, was “a personal insult.” The Times turned him down in 1926 before coming around in 1930, when the paper wrote that the new entry in its stylebook — its internal guide on grammar and usage — was “not merely a typographical change,” but “an act in recognition of racial self-respect.” Decades later, a monthlong internal discussion at The Times led the paper on Tuesday to make, for similar reasons, its latest style change on race — capitalizing Black when describing people and cultures of African origin. “We believe this style best conveys elements of shared history and identity, and reflects our goal to be respectful of all the people and communities we cover,” said Dean Baquet, The Times’s executive editor, and Phil Corbett, associate managing editor for standards, in a memo to staff. Did you know you can share 10 gift articles a month, even with nonsubscribers? Share this article. Conversations about the change began in earnest at The Times and elsewhere after the death of George Floyd and subsequent protests, said Mike Abrams, senior editor for editing standards. Several major news media organizations have made the same call including The Associated Press, whose stylebook has long been an influential guide for news organizations. “It seems like such a minor change, black versus Black,” The Times’s National editor, Marc Lacey, said. “But for many people the capitalization of that one letter is the difference between a color and a culture.” Editors’ Picks When George Clooney Met Julia Roberts (Don’t Believe the Reports) Venice: ‘Don’t Worry Darling’ Faces the Press, but Where Is Florence Pugh? John McEnroe Gets His Revenge As tensions rose across the country, Mr. Abrams noticed members of the newsroom raising questions about the capital B and sharing articles on the subject in Slack, the workplace chat platform. He talked with editors at other publications, including The A.P. and The Washington Post, about conversations happening in their newsrooms. And he talked with Times staff members: more than 100 of them, by phone, email and Slack. “The lowercase B in Black has never made sense to me as a Black woman, and it didn’t make sense to me as a Black girl,” said Destinée-Charisse Royal, a senior staff editor in the Graphics department and one of the editors consulted on the change. “My thought was that the capital B makes sense as it describes a race, a cultural group, and that is very different from a color in a box of crayons.” The style change is one of dozens of other updates or additions that have been made to The Times’s usage guide this year, Mr. Abrams said. The decisions can take anywhere from hours to months. Suggestions for changes are typically submitted by staff through email or an online form, filtered into a spreadsheet and parsed each month by the Standards team. New entries, intentionally, can often lag behind the most current language. Ms. Royal likened new style guidance to new dictionary entries: The Times adds words once people are already widely using them, not before. “We don’t treat the stylebook as an instrument of activism; we don’t view it as at the vanguard of language,” Mr. Abrams said. “We generally want the stylebook to reflect common usage.” Most updates don’t require much input or approval from other editors, but on sensitive issues, he said, particularly those that reach every corner of Times coverage, a range of perspectives is vital. “Some have been pushing for this change for years,” Mr. Lacey said. “They consider Black like Latino and Asian and Native American, all of which are capitalized. Others see the change as a distraction from more important issues. Then there are those troubled that our policy will now capitalize ‘Black’ but not ‘white.’ Over all, the view was that there was a growing agreement in the country to capitalize and that The Times should not be a holdout.” Before the style change, Ms. Royal said, some writers might have been inclined to use African-American — the only uppercase option, and still acceptable per the Times stylebook — even when Black might have been more accurate. “Because of the history of Black people in this country, most of us do not have a specific African nation to link our ancestry back to,” she said. “Broadly speaking, when you are looking at a group of people of African ancestry in the United States, you do not know if they identify as African-American. You do not know if they were born in, say, Ghana or if they were born in the Bronx like I was.” But specificity is always preferred when possible, Mr. Abrams said — that is, when race is mentioned at all. Times policy advises reporters to cite a person’s race only if it’s pertinent to an article, and in those situations, reporters must explain why. The Times also looked at whether to capitalize white and brown in reference to race, but both will remain lowercase. Brown has generally been used to describe a wide range of cultures, Mr. Baquet and Mr. Corbett said in their memo to staff. As a result, its meaning can be unclear to readers; white doesn’t represent a shared culture and history in the way Black does, and also has long been capitalized by hate groups. “To be parallel does make sense usage-wise when talking about grammar and usage, but we can never just go on these sorts of standards,” Ms. Royal said. “Language doesn’t work that way. You have to consider the other factors.”

You can find us here: https://www.ww2online.org/content/donor-support.

We’ve spent several years researching names, places, and dates related to experiences in World War II. These veterans were born in a United States that spoke English differently than we do now. Think about how Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn sound in some of those old movies. Many of them had never ventured more than 50 miles from the place they were born, and they carried those accents and eccentricities of speech for the rest of their lives.

The places they visited were far-flung and exotic, and we’re capturing the place names, but also their remembered wonder at seeing those places for the first time. The shock of memories about huge coconut crabs on tropical islands juxtaposed with the sudden, bloody death of the guy right next to you.

And these guys remember the men who were lost—they remember their first and last names and often theor middle initials! They remember where that guy was from. And they remember the sudden, ghastly details of their deaths.

They remember their lives before the war so carefully, but to us transcribing, it often seems like a landscape from the Wizard of Oz, more foreign than some of the locales they visited. Men who remember plowing acres of land with horses, and futures that offered only the option of doing what your dad, and his dad, had done.

Education seems to have been pretty sporadic, and their reasons for enlisting are as varied as the men who enlisted, but they all shared some degree of naivete. Some have a greater understanding of infantry than others, but none of them were prepared for the realities of war.

We forget that most of the U.S. was unaware of the horrors of the Holocaust when we ventured into the war. And I think we forget how united Americans were in enlisting and joining the fight. We’ve heard many veterans comment that everybody was enlisting. My mother used to talk about how important radio was in those days, and veterans and people on the Home Front alike were stirred by Roosevelt’s “a day that will live in infamy speech.”

Listening to these oral histories has been a privilege, and researching their experiences “over there” has been a challenge.

Thanks to the National World War II Museum for the experience of a lifetime, and the chance to capture the descriptions of thousands of experiences of a lifetime.

Published October 11, 2022

Gender-Neutral Form?

Meaning Of Mx.

When addressing strangers, authority figures, and in formal situations, it is considered polite to use an honorific, or title, to address them. The most frequently used honorifics are gendered male or female, which may not always be appropriate. In this article, we are going to review the most common honorifics, the alternative Mx., and how and when to use these titles.

What is the gender neutral term for Mr., Mrs., and Ms.?

The most commonly used gender-neutral honorific is Mx., pronounced [ miks ] or [ muhks ]. The first recorded use of Mx. was in 1977, where it was suggested as a less-sexist alternative to the traditional Mr., Mrs., and Miss. These forms are not only highly gendered, but they also link a woman’s status to whether she is married or not.

The honorific Mr., from master, is used for men regardless of marital status. The titles Mrs. and Miss, from mistress, are used for married and unmarried women, respectively. To reduce the emphasis on marriage, the alternative Ms. was coined in the 1950s for women regardless of marital status.

You can learn more about all of these forms and where they come from in the article “Mr., Mrs., Miss, and Ms.: What They Mean And How To Use Them.”

Just as Ms. solved the sexist problem that a woman was described based on her relationship to men, the form Mx. addressed the gendered nature of titles more generally. Although it was coined in the 1970s, it didn’t gain traction until the 2000s as there came to be greater mainstream acceptance of nonbinary or gender-nonconforming people (see A Language Of Pride: Understand The Terms Around LGBTQ Identity).

Mx. is now used as a preferred title for many who identify as neither man nor woman. This is not its only use, however. Like other gender-neutral forms of address, Mx. can also be useful when addressing an audience whose gender is unknown. A good example of this is on forms that use a title (think: Mx. _____).

While Mx. is the most common gender-neutral title, it isn’t the only one. Another alternative for nonbinary or gender-noncomforming people is Misc., short for miscellaneous, from the Latin for “mixed.” Similarly, the alternative title M. does away with all the gendered information that comes after the M in the other titles and is a simple way to express a variety of genders or lack of gender. Another option is Ind., short for individual. As with all titles, pronouns, names, and so forth, one should be mindful to use the language that a person uses for themselves.

Along those lines, professional titles are gender-neutral and may be preferred by people of any gender. The most common of these is Dr., short for doctor, which is used for Ph.D. holders and medical doctors. Captain and coach are also common titles that can be held in a variety of settings. People in the military can be referred to by their ranks, as in General or Sergeant. Members of the clergy in many faiths are also typically referred to by specific honorifics, such as Reverend or Rabbi.

What does Mx. stand for?

Mx. is a riff on the classic gendered titles Mr. and Ms. It keeps the M and swaps the gendered element of these terms for the gender-neutral X. The letter X has historically been used as a symbol for the unknown or indescribable. In this way, it is perfect for a gender-neutral honorific. Mx. shows respect while leaving the gender unknown or unarticulated. Other examples of words that use the letter X as an indication of gender-nonconformity that you may have come across are folx and womxn.

The purpose of using these titles, whether it’s Mr., Ms., Mx., or anything else, is to convey respect. (They are called “honorifics,” not “ruderifics,” after all.) Because that’s the goal, whatever title someone chooses for themselves is the one you should use for them. And whether you are nonbinary, gender nonconforming, or simply just not interested in being called a gendered title, if Mx. or any of these alternatives don’t feel fitting to you, you can always coin your own!