Growing Old in America: Aging in an age of ageism
Being an old, white guy in America isn’t exactly a reason to celebrate these days. Each dawn brings new reminders of what’s been lost: looks, balance, and the naïve optimism that infects youth.
When I was young and handsome, girls took notice of me (or is my faulty memory only imaging so?). Now, I’m virtually invisible. I can walk past younger folks and not even register on their care-factor radar.
Even animals are dismissive. Dogs sniff at lunch debris on my clothes and casually urinate on my leg if I stand still too long. By contrast, kids stare at me like I’m from another planet. Some point and ask mommy to explain the unidentified creature.
Beyond mere humiliation, we old guys get blamed for a lot of stuff we didn’t do — like create GMO foods, overdraft penalties, and discrimination. Well…at least I didn’t create them. But because I look like the old white guys who did, it’s guilt by association.
On the bright side, I can get away with almost anything. I just do my old duffer act — drop things, mutter to myself, look blank — and people seem delighted. No need to shave, comb my hair, or zip up my pants. The younger set has seen my likes before, and they’re just happy it’s not them.
There’s a lot of stuff you can get away with, too. Take up two parking spots, run people out of the way in a disabled shopping cart, and pass gas at will. But I’m not about to give away all those precious secrets…
Renegotiation my identity
Other old people give me “The Look.” Especially older guys. It says, “You, too, eh? I feel you, bro. I know what you’re going through.” It’s a strange comradery based on failing flesh. Like the forlorn feeling of being washed up together on a desert isle knowing there’s no rescue coming.
At some point old dudes like me have to make peace with who we’ve become. As one ancient friend told me, “It’s not about us anymore. It’s about our kids and grandkids.” What he was saying is that we have to warm up to being irrelevant. In livestock jargon it’s called “being put out to pasture.”
Ever heard the saying, “He’s not half the man he used to be?” Well getting old means being ok with having been a man at all. It’s about accepting whatever is left and making the best of it; renegotiating who we are each day depending on what parts get out of bed. The bits that worked yesterday may not be functioning today — gone with the half who is no more.
The designated role
I’ve realized that people want an old geezer like me to be a benign, affable onlooker in life. Someone who’s self-deprecating, tells corny jokes, and offers an inopportune smile when cursed at for driving too slow. The designated role is that of appreciative obsolescence. I’m supposed to be grateful because…well…there’s always euthanasia.
The mounting wrinkles mandate the part. They’re the gauge with which modern culture assesses insignificance. To counter the little rascals I could get tattoos…but they would have to be ocean scenes to accommodate the wavy look. It’s easier to just avoid mirrors.
The exception
Having recently moved to rural Virginia, I’ve noticed that some of the “kids” around here actually treat me with a modicum of respect. I’ve sensed a deferential attitude among some of the uninitiated. Perhaps it’s their farming background or a strict religious upbringing that has shielded them from the culture-du-jour. Regardless, the lack of paternalism is certainly refreshing — something an old coot could get used to it.
The respect I feel among rural youth reminds me of times I lived in developing countries in Africa and Asia. There old age is actually revered. Imagine such a thing — associating gray with wisdom and honor. Immigrants to America from distant cultures bring those values with them, like golden treasure from exotic lands. Sadly, it degrades within a generation or two on American shores. We call it assimilation. Such a shame.
Going forward
So here’s the deal. We old guys (and gals) just want to be treated like real people. Not ghosts or a completely different species. Try to look us in our bloodshot eyes and treat us like the well-ripened pals we really are. We’re one of you…just farther down the pike.
For our part, our age isn’t as important as our hearts. We see all manner of younger people as who we were in days gone by. And you, my friends, will be us in the days ahead. We’re all together in this adventure called life. It’ll prove to be all too short for all of us. So drop the attitude and let’s celebrate our days as equals.
Is that too much for an old codger to ask?