You Will Respect Me! (Because Once, No One Did)
“Kids these days have no manners,” muttered Maman (not his real name) as he stared at the WhatsApp group chat of his organization. He had just sent out a meeting invitation, expecting the usual “Yes, Kak” that would soothe his sense of seniority. Instead, his message only received a thumbs-up emoji from his juniors.
The juniors, of course, had no idea what they’d done wrong. To them, it was just a casual reply. But to Maman, it was a symbol of moral decline, proof that the younger generation had forgotten respect. Since then, people started calling Maman power-hungry, obsessed with being revered.
But if we look closer, people like Maman aren’t that rare. Many of them don’t see respect as a mutual courtesy, but as emotional currency. And rather than mocking him, let’s try wearing Maman’s glasses for a moment. Maybe he isn’t as bad as we think. Maybe Maman became like this because once, he was ignored, dismissed, and treated like background noise. Just as a thirsty person will always look for water, perhaps Maman is only searching for respect because he’s been deprived of it for too long.
The Boy Who Sat at the End of the Table
Since childhood, Maman always sat at the far end of the dinner table, the seat furthest from his father, the seat easiest to forget. From there, his voice was often drowned out by the clinking of plates and adult conversation. Whenever he tried to speak, his words vanished between laughter and serving spoons.
Eventually, he learned to stay quiet. Sitting at the end of the table meant learning not to expect to be heard. He watched as others made decisions without him — where to go on vacation, who was to blame in family arguments, and how everyone somehow managed to talk over each other without guilt.
Years later, at another table — the local warmindo with his friends — Maman was still in the same position: the extra. He laughed, ordered, paid his share, but was never the center of the story. Sometimes, even his presence was forgotten. “Man, we’re short one bike,” read one WhatsApp message. That was the most affection he ever got: invited not because they missed him, but because they needed his motorcycle. Still, he came. Sat at the end of the table again. Stared at his fried noodles and tried to laugh as hard as everyone else.
Then life brought him somewhere new, a space filled with younger people, more impressionable, more obedient. It was like being reborn. Suddenly, he lived in a small world where people called him Kak. A world where even his most trivial words were noticed. A world where people waited for his instructions as if his voice finally had weight.
So he began to manage respect like a child with a brand-new toy. Every “Yes, Kak” became a validation. Every “🙏” emoji felt like redemption for those years spent at the end of the table. He thought that by making everyone treat him with reverence, the old wounds would heal. He didn’t realize that wounds locked too tightly don’t heal, they rust.
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Respect became his addiction, especially after growing up unseen. Maman wasn’t seeking power; he was seeking presence. But the world can’t tell the difference. So from the little authority he had, came the small ritual we know as “forced reverence.” He didn’t want to be loved. He just wanted to be feared a little so his voice wouldn’t disappear again in other people’s laughter.
But What If Maman Was Always Respected?
You might say, “But the Maman I know was the popular senior everyone admired.” That, too, fits the story. Let’s say Maman wasn’t ignored in his past. Maybe he grew up too respected. The eldest child, model student, student council president, everyone’s golden boy. He got used to seeing people lower their heads slightly when they said his name. At school, every idea he shared was met with, “Wow, that’s so smart, Man!” He never had to fight for respect because it was served to him on a silver platter.
But the world, as usual, didn’t promise to keep it that way. When adulthood came, the rooms that once celebrated him turned cold and indifferent. At work, no one cared that he used to lead the student council. In the organization, he was no longer “Kak Maman,” but “Mas, can you send that revision soon?”
The world suddenly felt flat. And Maman, who once swam in an ocean of recognition, now gasped like a fish dragged out of the pond of respect. He looked for the same oxygen, but it was gone.
Then he found us, his new pond. Young, uncertain juniors who still stumble over their new titles. Those who call him Kak with a tone half-admiring, half-nervous. Among us, Maman rediscovered his nostalgia. Respect became easy again.
And without realizing it, we became his next target. But we, the generation raised in a more egalitarian age, no longer speak the same hierarchical language. And that’s where the tragedy begins: The more Maman demands respect, the faster he loses it. The more he tries to look authoritative, the more his fear shows.
Poor Maman, Respect Him Anyway
In the end, not every Maman needs to be fought. Some just need a bit of pity. They’re not dangerous — just noisy because they’re hungry in a quiet place.
So next time you encounter a Maman, in a meeting, office group chat, or student organization, the one who gets upset when you don’t use “🙏,” the one who frowns because you sat before being told to, the one who feels disrespected by your casual tone, pause and think about what he really wants. Then give it to him.
Give Maman what he wants. No need to argue, no need to correct. Give them our respect. Respect not given out of sincerity, but out of understanding; the kind that comes from being comfortable enough in ourselves to share some of our abundance with those who lack it.
And if someone asks why you’re being so patient, just say:
“Poor guy. Maybe he just lost his stage once.”
