After Altair Jaspe moved from Venezuela to the Colombian capital, Bogotá, she was surprised by the way she was shouted at when she entered any store, cafe or doctor’s office.
In a city that was once part of the Spanish empire, she was no longer a “senora,” as she would have been called in Caracas, or perhaps, in her younger days, a “muchacha” or “chama.” (Venizel terms for “girl” or “young woman”.)
Instead, around her, she was bestowed with an honor that felt more fitting for a woman in a cape and crown: Your mercy.
Would your grace like a coffee?
Will your mercy get the appointment at 3pm?
Excuse me, your mercy, people told her as they passed a door or an elevator.
“It brought me back to the colonial era, automatically,” said Ms. Jaspe, 63, a retired logistics manager, expressing her initial discomfort with the phrase. “To horses and carts,” he continued, “perhaps to slavery.”
“But after experiencing it,” he continued, “I understood.”
In most of the Spanish-speaking world, the main ways to say “you” are the casual “tú” and the formal “usted.” But in Colombia there is another “you” — “su merced,” which means “your mercy,” “your grace,” or even “your worship,” and now it has been added to the more economical “sumercé.”
(In some parts of the Spanish-speaking world there is still a different “you” used — the all-too-casual “vos”.)
In Bogotá, a city of eight million people nestled in the Andes mountains, the “sumercé” is ubiquitous, used not only by taxi drivers and shopkeepers to serve customers (how can I help your mercy?), but also by children to refer to parents, parents to refer to children, and (sometimes with tender irony) even from wives, husbands and lovers to refer to each other (“thy mercy shall pass the salt?” or “thy mercy, what do you think, should I wear these pants today?”).
It’s used by young and old, by urbanites and rural transplants, by the most recent past mayor of Bogotá (“trabaje juiciosa, sumercé!” she was once caught on camera yelling at a street vendor, “go to work, my goodness!” ), and even by the front woman for one of the country’s most famous rock bands, Andrea Echeverri of Aterciopelados.
The Spanish founded Bogotá in 1538 after a brutal conquest of the indigenous Muisca people, and the city soon became a center of colonial power.
“Sumercé” is indeed a relic of that era, and scholars have documented its use as a sign of politeness in institutional relations (a letter from the governor of Cuba to the conquistador Hernán Cortés in 1518). a mark of respect in families (one brother-in-law to another in 1574). and, in particular, as a sign of servitude by slaves or servants to their masters.
But modern proponents of “sumercé” say its current popularity lies in the fact that it has lost that hierarchical edge and today means respect and affection, not respect or social class distinction.
Ms. Jaspe said she eventually came to see “sumercé” as a casual term of endearment, as in “sumercé, qué bonito le queda ese sombrero.” (“Your mercy, how lovely that hat looks on you.”)
After Colombia gained its independence from the Spanish in the early 1800s, the “sumercé” stayed in the department of Boyacá, a rich agricultural region in central Colombia, just north of Bogotá.
Jorge Velosa, singer-songwriter and famous voice of Boyacá (he once played Madison Square Garden in the region’s traditional woolen poncho, known as a ruana) recalled that in his childhood home “sumercé” was the way he and his brothers they were referring to their mother. , and their mother referred to them.
“Sumercé,” he said, was a sort of middle ground between the stiff “used”—used only at home as a prelude to reprimand—and the almost too casual “tú.”
Eventually, “sumercé” migrated south with many Boyacenses, to Bogotá, becoming as much a part of the lexicon of central Colombia as “bacano” (cool), “chévere” (also cool), “parce” (friend), “paila” (difficult), “qué pena” (sorry) and “dar papaya”. (Literally, “give papaya”, but more figuratively, “act ignorant”. As in: “My goodness, don’t act ignorant on the street, you’ll get mugged!”).
For the most part, “your mercy” has remained characteristic of central Colombia and is rarely used on the country’s coasts, where “tú” is more common, or in cities such as Cali (“vos”) and Medellin (“tu” , “used” and sometimes “vos.”)
But in and around the capital, “sumercé” is emblazoned on hats, pins and T-shirts and incorporated into the names of restaurants and markets. It’s the title of a new documentary about Colombian environmental activists. And it’s celebrated in songs, podcasts, and Colombian Spanish lessons on Spotify and YouTube.
“At this point it doesn’t mark any social class,” said Andrea Rendón, 40, from Bogotá. “We are all Summers.”
A recently released music video, “Sumercé,” by rapper Wikama Mc, embodies the folk-cool status the phrase has achieved.
In a house party scene that could take place almost anywhere in the Colombian Andes, the artist plays a ruana while celebrating the “Colombian flow” of his female object of affection, who boasts that she “dances the carranga”—folk music popularized by Mr. .Velosa — and also reggaeton, modern parties popularized by international celebrities such as J. Balvin.
“Talk to me straight, sumercé,” he raps, before offering his girlfriend a hearty tip from his traditional felt hat.
The song has garnered more than 18,000 views since it was uploaded to YouTube in December. Impressive, considering the artist has 500 followers on the platform.
Ms. Echeverri, the rock star, linked the use of the phrase to a punk aesthetic, which seeks a “horizontal” relationship with everyday people. (In a recent video interview he used it to bring the show’s host closer, talking about a remake of one of “those songs that maybe your mercy has heard so many times.”)
Sumercé, she explained in a separate interview, “is loving, but also respectful.”
Not everyone sees it that way, of course. Carolina Sanín, a well-known writer, has criticized those who argue that “sumercé” is so ubiquitous in Colombia that it should be embraced, uncritically, as a cultural norm.
Even in a region known for its stark inequality, Colombia’s class divisions remain deeply entrenched. It takes the average poor Colombian 11 generations to reach the national median income, according to the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development, two more than Brazil, three more than Chile and five more than Argentina.
Decades of violence have reinforced these barriers, allowing a small group to amass capital and territory. For some, “sumercé” can feel like a perpetuation or even a celebration of these hierarchical relationships.
“Non-payment into the social system and land hoarding have also been referred to as ‘our custom’.” Ms Sanin wrote on Twitter.
“Words are important,” he continued. “Words pave the way to justice.”
A linguist in Bogotá, Javier Guerrero-Rivera, recently surveyed 40 Colombian university students and found that 85 percent said they were not bothered by the term and felt a sense of respect and tenderness when it was addressed to them. Another 10 percent felt indifferent about the phrase. Just 5 percent said the term was derogatory or made them feel uncomfortable.
Juan Manuel Espinosa, deputy director of the Caro and Cuervo Institute, which is dedicated to the study of the peculiarities of Colombian Spanish, said he believed the social separation described by people like Ms. Sanín was precisely what drew many Colombians to the word.
“‘Sumercé’ is a way to create a connection in a very fragmented society,” he said.
Jhowani Hernández, 42, who operates office cleaning machines, described using “your mercy” with his wife, Beatriz Méndez, 50, a housekeeper, “cuando me saca la piedra” (Colombian for “when she makes me angry”) but mainly “para dar cariño” (“to show affection”).
However, Daniel Sánchez, 31, a documentary filmmaker in Bogotá, said he had moved away from using “sumercé” after he began to think about “the whole background of the phrase”, meaning “this slavish and colonial thing that is not so . cool.”
Now, when he wants to express respect and affection, he uses a different, less Colombianism: “Veci,” which simply means “neighbor.” As in: “Veci, don’t give papayas on the street, you’ll get robbed.”
Simón Posada contributed reporting from Bogotá.