This Chair Rocks
I’ve never lied about my age—I have no problem saying “I’m sixty-five,” loud and clear—but I sure know a lot of people who do. People who’ve lied on résumés and on airplanes and on dates. There was the opera singer who fudged upward at the beginning of her career so she could get cast as Norma, but was holding at thirty-nine. And the woman who loved passing off her granddaughters as her kids, and who was regularly connected to her bank’s fraud department because she couldn’t remember what birth date she was using.
I would never have been able to keep my stories straight either—one reason I told the truth. Another was because the typical response wasn’t so terrible: “You look great for your age!” I inherited my mother’s no-gray-hair genes, I’ve always had plenty of energy and no plans to slow down, and I certainly never felt like any of the labels out there—”senior,” “cougar,” “woman of a certain age”—applied to me. But if I was so cool with it, why didn’t “You look great for your age” feel like a compliment? The fact was that the hazy prospect of growing old filled me with something between free-floating anxiety and stomach-churning dread. I didn’t want to think about it until I had to, and when it crossed my mind, I flipped the channel. Why not, as long as I could “pass” for younger, right?
That wasn’t a very solid strategy. Birthday cards circulate regularly around the charmless cubicles of my office at the American Museum of Natural History, where I worked with a guy named Ray for fifteen years. Ray and I don’t have much in common. He handled the accounts; I write. He lived in the suburbs; I don’t own a car. He’s conservative; I’m progressive. With his fringe of snow-white hair, if he gained weight and wore red, he’d make a perfect Santa. He’s proud of being cantankerous, he’s always muttering about his aches and pains, and he can’t wait to retire to Florida. So when I learned that Ray and I were exactly the same age, I panicked. I thought, “What if everyone finds out? They’ll think I’m old too.”
That wasn’t just condescending and mean-spirited of me, it was idiotic. My coworkers, Ray included, are an intelligent bunch. They haven’t had any trouble telling the two of us apart so far, and difficulties are unlikely to crop up. I’m not Ray. Why, then, was I so flipped out about landing with my coworker on the same side of some hypothetical old/young divide? Why did I imagine that this would erase our individuality, and diminish me so frighteningly? Was I driven by fear of losing my looks? Of growing frail? Of my own mortality? Wouldn’t I be better off making my peace with aging than waging a battle no one could ever win?
I wish I could report that I found the answers in one blinding epiphany. Instead, it’s been a gradual awakening over the past eight years. There have been many glum days at the keyboard, and some sleepless nights dictating brilliant insights into my phone, most of which were a lot less brilliant in the morning light. I had the good fortune to be mentored by Dr. Robert Butler, coiner of the term “ageism,” before his death in 2014. I attended seminars for journalists who cover the “age beat,” inhaled countless books and articles, and started thinking out loud in blog form. I delved into a world of advertisements and movies, policies and bylaws, and products and promotions that had shaped my unconscious beliefs with one overarching message: old=no good. Or, as the Twitterverse might put it: it sucks to be old.
A chance dinner conversation in 2007 with my partner’s mother, Ruth Stein, got me started on this journey. In their eighties at the time, she and her husband, Bill, are booksellers, and that night she said, “I think you should write about something people ask us all the time: ‘So when are you going to retire?’” The idea was upbeat and sound bite-friendly. I started learning about longevity, interviewing people over eighty who work, and blogging about it.
I headed to Santa Fe, where I had family to stay with. My first interview was with eighty-eight-year-old folk artist Marcia Muth on the porch of her little adobe house, shaded by a tree festooned with CDs and surrounded by her hubcap collection. Muth had been raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana, by her grandparents, to whom she was “a disappointment, because I liked classical music, I liked Shakespeare, I loved poetry. To them, work was having a store.” She went on to become a law librarian, poet, publisher, and, in her fifties, a successful folk art painter and teacher. A newspaper clipping on the wall quoted Muth’s advice to her Elderhostel students: “You are never too old, and it’s never too late.”
Embarrassed by her lack of formal training, Muth painted in secret for ten years. When a local artist dropped by and caught her scurrying to hide her brushes, he offered her some advice: “Don’t take any lessons. Just keep going.” She did, and it became a way of life that she was grateful to have found in her middle years. Chronic bronchitis had ended her teaching career a few years earlier and tethered her to an oxygen tank, but “it doesn’t interfere with the painting, that’s the important thing,” she said. “Your life does change as you get older,” she told me. “You get into what’s important and what’s not.” She and her partner went out less and moved more slowly, but her work continued to improve as she got better at listening to herself. “Don’t fear old age,” she advised. “Your years can be just as wonderful as you get rid of some of the anxiety people suffer from. And I find my eighties have been even more fun than my seventies were.”
The possibility that life could become more fun in your eighties had never crossed my mind. Nor that growing a little shorter of breath each year would fail to terrify. Nor that an ever more circumscribed life could be an ever-greater source of personal growth and specific pleasures. Nor that such joyful clarity would be rooted in awareness—not denial—that time was short and therefore to be savored. After this first jolt of fresh old air, I kept going. From pediatricians to park rangers, Americans of advanced years and all stripes told me about their work behind steering wheels and desks and band saws and television cameras and how they’d gotten there.
It came as no surprise that they were as different from one another as could be, not to mention from the stereotype of the doddering ancient. But something did surprise me: the discrepancy between what I’d simply assumed it was like to be eighty or ninety and what I was encountering firsthand. The more I read and the more experts I talked to, the clearer it became that these older workers were typical of a large and fast-growing cohort of older Americans. Why the disconnect between what I had imagined about old age and the reality that was coming into view? Had I bought into some kind of party line? What were some of my assumptions about what the future held?
My darkest nightmare was the possibility of ending my days drooling under a bad botanical print in some ghastly institutional hallway. Asked what percentage of Americans over sixty-five lived in nursing homes, I’d have ventured, “Maybe thirty?” I’d never have arrived at the actual number: four percent, down from five over the last decade! Even for people eighty-five and up, the number is only 10 percent.
What about being sick, and helpless? I soon learned that over half of the “oldest old”—ages eighty-five and up—can go about their everyday activities without any personal assistance. Probably not shoveling their driveways or doing Costco runs, but dressing, cooking, and wiping their own butts. People get chronic illnesses, but they learn to live with them. The vast majority of older Americans live independently until they come down with whatever kills them.
What about the specter of dementia? Everyone seemed to know a horror story. My memory’s never been any good, so maybe I won’t notice if I develop Alzheimer’s disease. It’s a terrifying prospect. But even as the population ages, dementia rates are dropping. The real epidemic is anxiety about memory loss. Remember the four percent of people over sixty-five living in nursing homes? Ninety percent of the remainder can think just fine. Again, the vast majority of older Americans will land in the rest of the pie chart, slowed somewhat but fully capable of finding their slippers sooner or later and making their way in the world.
How about my assumption that old people no longer had sex? It’s true that sexual activity tends to decrease with age. It’s equally true that retirement homes are hotbeds of lust and romance, as evidenced by skyrocketing STD rates in people over fifty. Sex and arousal do change, but often for the better, especially for women.
I also figured that old people were depressed. After all, they were old, and they were going to die soon. Their droopy faces were all the evidence I needed. It turns out that older people enjoy better mental health than the young or middle-aged. Who knew? Here’s the kicker: people are happiest at the beginnings and the ends of their lives. If you don’t want to take my word for it, Google “U-curve of happiness.” Even as age strips us of things we cherished—physical strength, beloved friends, toned flesh—we grow more content.
The more I learned, the better I felt about the years ahead—no small accomplishment in itself. I had to acknowledge that the goalposts were shifting, but also that I remained very much in the game. I’ve always loved bicycling in the city, but now I wear a helmet and stay in the slow lane. I still barrel along the sidewalk, but recently had to slow down in order to keep pace with a seventy-four-year old friend whose knees were killing her. Arthritis. She marveled that time and cartilage had waylaid her in this way, and I realized that I, too, will marvel when it happens to me. Like her, I’ll figure out how to deal with it. I’ll buy a cane just like she did, and keep on walking. Just not as fast.
Specific concerns replaced nameless dread. I was onto something. Clearly, hitting ninety was going to be different—and way better—than the inexorable slide toward depression, diapers, and puffy white shoes I’d once envisioned, although I’m still worried about the shoes.
Things started looking so much rosier that I graduated to what I came to call I’m Not Ray - Stage Two: trumpet the fact that Ray and I are the same age, because see how much younger I look! I slid happily to the other end of the spectrum and spent several years chasing the idea that enough spinach, Sudoku, and positive thinking could “put old on hold.” This approach goes by all kinds of peppy names, like Successful Aging and Productive Aging, and it moves a lot of product aimed at keeping us “ageless.” It sounds comforting and it feels empowering.
But a question tugged at my sleeve. Was I actually coming to terms with what it meant to grow older? Or had I merely swapped my don’t-want-to-think-about-it foxhole for a hamster wheel to keep uncomfortable reckonings at bay—and Ray at a distance? Replaced dread with denial, in effect?
Hitting sixty felt just fine. I knew the years were bestowing more than they took away. I knew it from my own experience, and my research continued to confirm that I was no exception and that the years ahead had even more to offer. But I had yet to internalize that knowledge, to integrate it into my beliefs and attitudes, to embed it into my sense of self and my place in the world, to make it my own. I had to acknowledge and start letting go of the prejudices about aging that had been drummed into me since childhood by the media and popular culture. Wrinkles are ugly. Old people are incompetent. It’s sad to be old. Absorbing these fallacies had been effortless. Banishing them is unsettling, and infinitely harder. Present tense because I’m still at it, as I’m reminded on a regular basis.
What was the hardest prejudice to let go of? A prejudice against myself—my own future, older self—as inferior to my younger self. That’s the linchpin of age denial. Whatever form it takes—from a cutesy “Just say I’m over (fill in the number)” to faces frozen by needle and knife—denial creates an artificial, destructive, and unsustainable divide between who we are and who we will become. Concealing or disavowing our age gives the number power over us that it doesn’t deserve. Accepting our age, on the other hand, paves the way to acknowledging it with pride.
I am not saying that aging is easy. We’re all worried about some aspect of getting old, whether it’s running out of money or getting sick or ending up alone, and those fears are legitimate and real. But it never dawns on most of us that the experience of reaching old age—or middle age, or even just aging past youth—can be better or worse depending on the culture in which it takes place. And American culture is grotesquely youth-centric. Depictions of older people tend to be extreme. At one end of the spectrum, a silver-maned dude, beloved of marketers, surfs a turquoise wave. At the other end, beloved of the aging-industrial complex, a tiny woman withers in a hospital bed. These people exist, but they are hardly typical. The vast majority of us will end up in the middle, muscles and memory slowed, but out in the world and able to enjoy our lives to the end.
I had to make my way to I’m Not Ray - Stage Three: I’m not Ray. Ray recently retired to Florida, where I bet he’s going to be happy as a clam; it’s the old age he wants. I’m making my way towards the old age I want, and it won’t look like his. I’m not planning to retire anytime soon, nor am I going to take up pole dancing or marathon running. I feel just fine about it. All aging is “successful”—not just the sporty version—otherwise you’re dead.
A bunch of pieces fell into place with that realization, but a fundamental, underlying question remained: Why had my vision of late life been so out of sync with the lived reality? Why had I bought into an unexamined narrative for all these years instead of taking comfort and guidance in the evidence around me? These facts were easy to come by, so why didn’t more people know them? What Kool-Aid had we drunk? What was it in the culture that had me and so many others so freaked out about the prospect of living to eighty or ninety? The answer, which grew into an itch that I had to scratch and ultimately a book that I had to write, is ageism—the relegation of older people to second-class citizenship, along with the disrespecting of youth. Here’s the formal definition: discrimination and stereotyping on the basis of a person’s age. We’re ageist when we feel or behave differently toward a person or a group on the basis of how old we think they are. Ageism isn’t a household word, or a sexy one, but neither was “sexism” until the women’s movement turned it into a howl for equal rights.
As with all “isms,” stereotyping lies at the heart of ageism: the assumption that all members of a group are the same. It’s why people think everyone in a retirement home is the same age—”old”—even though residents can range from those in their fifties to centenarians. (Can you imagine thinking the same way about a group of twenty- to sixty-year-olds?) And the older we get, the more different from one another we become. Think about it: which group is likely to have more in common, a bunch of seventeen-year-olds or of seventy-seven-year-olds? As doctors put it, “If you’ve seen one eighty-year-old, you’ve seen one eighty-year-old.”
All “isms”—racism, sexism, homophobia—are socially constructed ideas. That means we make them up, and they change over time. Like all discrimination, ageism legitimizes and sustains inequalities between groups—in this case, between the young and the no-longer-young. Different kinds of discrimination—including racism, sexism, ageism, ableism, and homophobia—interact, creating layers of oppression in the lives of individuals and groups. The oppression is reflected in and reinforced by society through the economic, legal, medical, commercial, and other systems that each of us navigates in daily life. Unless we challenge stigma, we reproduce it.
Like racism and sexism, ageism is not about how we look. It’s about what people in power want our appearance to mean. Ageism occurs when the dominant group uses its power to oppress or exploit or silence or simply ignore people who are much younger or significantly older. We experience ageism any time someone assumes we’re “too old” for something—a task, a relationship, a haircut—instead of finding out who we are and what we’re capable of. Or if someone assumes that we’re “too young;” ageism cuts both ways, and young people experience a lot of it. That’s what’s going on when people grumble about lazy millennials or complain that “kids are like that.”
Now I see ageism everywhere. When old pals cringe at public mention of how long they’ve known each other instead of savoring their shared history. When men and women feel compelled to lie about their age on online dating sites. When people bridle at being kindly offered a seat on the bus. On billboards and television, in hospitals and hotels, over dinner and on the subway. (“At age eighty, who doesn’t need a facelift?” a poster announcing a subway station renovation asks brightly.) In the incessant barrage of messages from every quarter that consigns the no-longer-young to the margins of society. In our mindless absorption of those messages and numb collusion in our own disenfranchisement.
I’ve learned that most of what I thought I knew about the aging process was wrong. That staying in the dark serves powerful commercial and political interests that don’t serve mine. And that seeing clearly is healthier and happier. Yet, despite the twentieth century’s unprecedented longevity boom, age bias has yet to bleep onto the cultural radar—it’s the last socially sanctioned prejudice. We know that diversity means including people of different races, genders, abilities, and sexual orientation; why isn’t age a criterion? Racist and sexist comments no longer get a pass, but who even blinks when older people are described as worthless? Or incompetent, or “out of it”, or boring, or even repulsive?
Suppose we could see these hurtful stereotypes for what they are—not to mention the external policies and procedures that put the “ism” after “age.” Suppose we could step off the treadmill of age denial and begin to see how ageism segregates and diminishes our prospects. Catch our breath, then start challenging the discriminatory structures and erroneous beliefs that attempt to shape our aging. Until then, like racism and sexism, ageism will pit us against each other; it will rob society of an immense accrual of knowledge and experience; and it will poison our futures by framing longer, healthier lives as problems instead of the remarkable achievements and opportunities they represent.
A good place to start is by jettisoning some language. “The elderly?” Yuck, partly because I’ve never heard anyone use the word to describe themselves. Also because “elderly” comes paired with “the,” which implies membership in some homogenous group. “Seniors?” Ugh. “Elders” works in some cultures but feels alien to me, and I don’t like the way it implies that people deserve respect simply by virtue of their age; children, too, deserve respect. Since the only unobjectionable term used to describe older people is “older people,” I’ve shortened the term to “olders” and use it, along with “youngers,” as a noun. It’s clear and value-neutral, and it emphasizes that age is a continuum. There is no old/young divide. We’re always older than some people and younger than others. Since no one on the planet is getting any younger, let’s stop using “aging” as a pejorative—”aging boomers,” for example, as though it were yet another bit of self-indulgence on the part of that pesky generation, or “aging entertainers,” as though their fans were cryogenically preserved.
It always drove me nuts when some clown called me “young lady” and expected me to feel complimented, but I didn’t know why until I started thinking deeply about it. Made to our face, comments like these are disguised as praise. We tend to ignore them because the reference to being no-longer-young is embarrassing. And it’s embarrassing to be called out as older until we quit being embarrassed about it. Well, I’m not any more. When someone says, “You look great for your age,” I no longer mutter an awkward thanks. I say brightly, “You look great for your age too!” When it dawned on me that one of the reasons older women are invisible is because so many dye their hair to cover their gray, I bleached mine white to see what it was like. When my back hurts, instead of automatically blaming it on my osteo-you-name-it, I stop to think whether shoveling or weeding could be to blame. I started a Q&A blog called Yo, Is This Ageist?, where people can ask me whether something they’ve seen or heard or done is offensive or not. And I wrote this book.
Although we age in different ways and at different rates, everyone wakes up a day older. Aging is difficult, but few of us opt out, and the passage of time confers very real benefits upon us. By blinding us to those benefits and heightening our fears, ageism makes growing older in America far harder than it has to be. That’s why I’ve embarked on a crusade to overturn American culture’s dumb and destructive obsession with youth. As I’ve gone on this journey from the personal to the political, it’s become clear that ageism is woven deeply into our capitalist system, and that upending it will involve social and political upheaval. Ageism, unlike aging, is not inevitable. In the twentieth century, the civil rights and women’s movements woke mainstream America up to entrenched systems of racism and sexism. More recently, disability rights and gay rights and trans rights activists have brought ableism and homophobia and transphobia to the streets and the courts of law. It is high time to add ageism to the roster, to include age in our criteria for diversity, and to mobilize against discrimination on the basis of age. It’s as unacceptable as discrimination on the basis of any aspect of ourselves other than our characters.
If marriage equality is here to stay, why not age equality? If gay pride has gone mainstream, and millions of Americans now proudly identify as disabled, why not age pride? The only reason that idea sounds outlandish is because this is the first time you’ve encountered it. It won’t be the last. Longevity is here to stay. Everyone is aging. Ending ageism benefits us all.
Why add another “ism” to the list when so many, racism in particular, call out for action? Here’s the thing: we don’t have to choose. When we make the world better place to grow old in, we make it a better place in which to be from somewhere else, to have a disability or be queer or non-white or non-rich. Just as different forms of oppression reinforce and compound each other—that’s intersectionality, a term coined by feminist and civil rights activist Kimberlé Crenshaw—so do different forms of activism, because they chip away at the fear and ignorance that all prejudice relies upon. Ageism is the perfect target for compound advocacy because everyone experiences it. And when we show up at all ages for whatever cause is tugging at our sleeve—save the whales, the clinic, the democracy—we not only make that effort more effective, we dismantle ageism in the process.
This book is a call to wake up to the ageism in and around us, embrace a more nuanced and accurate view of growing older, cheer up, and push back. What ideas about aging have each of us internalized without even realizing it? Where have those ideas come from, and what purpose do they serve? How do they play out across our lives—from office to bedroom, in muscle and memory—and what changes inside us once we perceive these destructive forces at work? What might an age-friendly world—friendly to all ages, that is—look like? What can we do, individually and collectively, to provoke the necessary shift in consciousness, and catalyze a radical age movement to make it happen?
Let’s find out.