violamom2tellsall

Day 9: your feelings on ageism 

I grew up in a home with four generations living under one roof. My grandfather’s aunt lived with us until she died when I was about eight. I remember sitting in her room and listening to stories about what it was like when she was a child. She was over 90 years old at that time, which means she was born sometime in the 1860-70s timeframe. Aunt Mary was a living, breathing history lesson and I cherished the time we spent together. The fact that she was old simply meant she had more life to talk about. It never frightened me or made me think less of her. On the contrary, it made me respect her even more.

I guess that’s part of why I’ve never understood how anyone could discriminate based on age. Older people bring a wealth of knowledge and experience to the mix. Younger and newer is not always better, and (to paraphrase a line from Skyfall) sometimes the old ways are the best. Perhaps youth does have the advantage of being quicker both mentally and physically, but that doesn’t mean that older folks are necessarily slow.

Perhaps we as a society have lost touch with the notion of learning from our elders. When we lived in close nuclear families, the elders held the history of the family in their hands and chose to whom they would pass it along. That’s how it was in my family.

As a woman, I look at ageism in a different way. As I get older, I notice that I’m becoming part of the scenery rather than standing out as the attractive female in the room. Older women are often passed over professionally and are rarely seen as desirable and interesting. We are judged by our appearance often: lined faces, gray hair, and wrinkles make us look old, but they make our male counterparts look “distinguished “. It is sad to me that young women have the issue of being sexualized and objectified, while women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s struggle to be seen as attractive, competent, and worthy — let alone in any way sexual.

There have been times when I’ve overheard people talking about my older musical colleagues and how they were “too old to play anymore”. I was appalled to hear such blatant disrespect for these men who had achieved brilliant performing careers. Just because they’re old they should stop playing? Just because they have lost some of the facility and technique from their youth their musical voices should be silenced? It was painful to listen to these ignorant people talk about their displeasure at having to listen to these “has beens” who were my heroes. Didn’t they ever stop to think that these artists needed to continue to play as long as they could because it was their whole life?

Why are the young so valuable and the old so expendable? Why can’t we make room for everyone to have a place? We could learn so much from each other if we did.

I look forward to the day when I am the old woman sharing the stories of my youth with my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m excited to be a piece of history for them like Aunt Mary was to me. Her stories are still alive to the extent that I can remember them. I am a link to a time nearly 100 years before I was born and to a woman born into the US in the decade after slavery was abolished. That’s an amazing legacy to carry and pass along.

I’m reminded of an old phrase I’ve heard many times since my childhood: age ain’t nothing but a number. The oldest among us will always have something to offer as long as they are alive. Let’s not sweep them aside before we have the opportunity to learn from them.

Day 8: A book you love and one you didn’t

I think the first part of this is easier than the second part.

First, before I go any further, I need to say that I have a reading disability.  It went undiagnosed all through my years in school, and it wasn’t until I was in college that I even heard about dyslexia or other similar disorders.  When I first read about dyslexia and its hallmark symptoms, I cried tears of joy and relief.  There was a word for what I had suffered in silence for years!  I wasn’t “lazy” or “slow”.  For years I hid this problem from all my teachers and my parents because I was ashamed.  I was afraid people would think I was stupid because I couldn’t read as fast or as well as the other students.

As I’ve gotten older, reading has gotten easier and I’ve learned to enjoy it more.  I can go at my own pace now and not be worried about deadlines, papers, and exams.  Today, I read for me.  I can finally enjoy reading in ways that I never did before.

There are also exercises to help train the eyes and to help with reading speed, fluency, and comprehension.  I have a great app for that on my iPad and it has already helped me tremendously.

I’m really happy that our daughter takes after John in her reading skills and interests.  Our son is more like me, and he struggles some.  Luckily, he has a mom who understands how hard it can be.  I try to help him as much as I can.  He’s already a better reader than I was at his age.  That’s encouraging.

Back to the prompt.

Once again, I’m an all or nothing person.  Either I love a lot of things or I’m not familiar with them at all.  In this particular case, I have a LOT of favorite books, but I can’t readily recall one I read that I don’t like.  I’m probably going to have to dig pretty deep to find a dud.  Finding a favorite won’t be terribly hard.  Even though I have enjoyed a great many books over the years, one stands out.

The Plague, by Albert Camus.

I was first introduced to Camus in high school when I read The Stranger.  Honestly, I was drawn to it because it was the shortest book on a long list of required reading during my junior year.  I knew that even this short book would take me as long to read as a book twice its size would take anyone else.  I went to the bookstore to get it and was immediately intrigued by its cover.  The cover art drew me in.  Once I opened the book, I could not stop reading it.  Camus drew me into a completely new world.  I was hooked.  The best part was how easily I could read this book.  The words seemed to fly off the page.  No other book had ever felt that way to me.

The memory of this experience stayed with me.  Once I was in college a couple years later, I had a chance to take a course called Existentialism and Politics.  The course description stated that we would be reading the works of Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Paul Sartre, Paul Tillich, and Albert Camus.  That was all I saw — ALBERT CAMUS.  I wanted that course to have another opportunity to read, study, and discuss Camus.  I was overjoyed to get into the class.

Of course, we got to Camus last…

For the first few weeks we slogged through the petulance of Beauvoir, the arrogance of Sartre, and the incomprehensibility of Tillich.  I was doing okay in the class, but my heart wasn’t in it.  I was waiting for Camus.  I was waiting for The Plague.

When it finally came, I was not disappointed.  I enjoyed the reading so much, and the discussions were lively and interesting.  I was in the process of exploring my own spirituality and the book was asking so many of the questions I had in my own mind about the nature of goodness in people regardless of their faith, or lack thereof.  At one point, the professor listened to my argument about a point in the book and announced to the class that my assessment clearly indicated that I was an atheist.  I was shocked!  I wasn’t sure where my path to faith lay, but I knew I was on one.  To this day I’m not sure what to think about that.

I was incredibly proud of the paper I did on The Plague, and it was well received.  When I have the chance, I hope to re-read The Plague again someday.  I’m sure I’ll see it differently almost 30 years later, but I’ll never forget how deeply it effected me then.

Now that I recount the story of that class, I would have to say that the book by Paul Tillich we read is probably the driest and most difficult thing I’ve ever read.  It is in the lead for my least favorite bit of reading ever, hands down.  I hated it so much that I don’t even remember the name!

Reading has been a difficult task for me, but I’ve never stopped trying to improve my skills and keep learning.  Had I given up in high school, I never would’ve gotten to read Camus and dive head first into his style of questioning the ways of the universe.  I would’ve missed out on so much.

Day 7

I don’t have any tattoos. Some days I feel like one of the only people I know without one. Even my daughter wants one.

But there’s more to say than just that. I want one and have for many years. I already know where I want it to be (the outside of my right thigh, about 6 inches down from my hip), and what I want it to say.

One simple word: guerrera.

Guerrera is the feminine form of the Spanish word for “warrior”. To me, this word tattooed on my body will tell the world how I see myself. I’m a fighter. I don’t give up, no matter how difficult life becomes.

The placement of the tattoo is very specifically chosen. I want it high enough on my leg so that it is covered by skirts and regular shorts, but low enough that it can be seen when I wear running shorts. When I’m running, that’s when I am most in need of the reminder that I am a warrior. It’s where I fight back the demons of doubt and insecurity and fly like the wind. When I run, I am free, but that freedom is something I’ve fought for. I am a warrior.

So, why not just a tattoo that says “warrior “?

Spanish is my second language. I was mostly fluent by the time I was 16 when I travelled to Spain. Over the years, I’ve lost some of my fluency, but I’ve never stopped speaking entirely. I have loved the language most of my life; I find it to be extremely musical and expressive in ways that English simply isn’t. For me, the word guerrera says more about me than the word warrior.

I don’t have a plan for getting this tattoo anytime soon, but I would like to have it finished by the time I’m back in good enough shape to run a marathon. I’ve always hoped to do that before I turned 50. I have a couple more years.

Getting a tattoo scares me because of the pain I anticipate it causing. I hate needles! This is the one thing that keeps me from doing it, I suppose.

One day I will overcome this fear as I have so many others. On that day I will cry out for all to hear:

¡Viva la guerrera!

Day 6: someone who fascinates me and why

Another stumper of a prompt.

I don’t know if I’m fascinated by anyone. Seriously. This isn’t a cop out as much as it is an admission of guilt. Should I be? Are there people from history or of celebrity that should grab my attention? Probably. I really just can’t think of anyone.

There were all sorts of things that used to fascinate me when I was younger: the Kennedy family, the history of the New York Yankees, the Beatles, Spike Lee films, the music of Beethoven, and Dorothy Dandridge. Those things changed over the years to reflect my changing interests, but lately I find myself not fascinated by all that much.

Life is busy. My family keeps me on my toes and I do have interests and projects of my own. What’s going on for me is enough to keep me from intense interest in anyone other than my nearest and dearest.

I’m beginning to wonder if my difficulties focusing outward in this post and the one before it signify something simple yet profound. Maybe I’m happy with things as they are. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m able to accept where I am without wishing I were someone or somewhere else.

How about them apples?

Day 5, a little late:

I’ve traveled a fair amount in my time — less than some but more than most. I’ve actually pinpointed two places I would love to live, but I’ve been to both of them (Virginia Beach and the southern coast of Spain, outside of Málaga). The criteria used to pick these two spots was simple: near or on the beach and within driving distance of mountains. It’s harder to come up with another place I would live, let alone one I’ve never seen in person.

What are my deal breakers?

• Living near the ocean is exceptionally important to me. I derive an enormous sense of peace and serenity from the sounds and smells of the sea. There is a tranquility about the beach that I can’t find anywhere else.
• I need clean, fresh, breathable air, and loads of sunshine.
• The local food choices must be simple, clean, and unprocessed. I want to eat well and not travel miles away or go broke doing it.
• I want friendly neighbors. I find I have a lot of surface level friendships where I am now, but not many deep and abiding friendships like those I had in NYC or at college. I come from a family where hospitality was deeply ingrained and extremely important. I miss that element in my life now, and I’m looking for a place to recapture it.
• I need cultural, racial, spiritual, and gender related diversity. It’s not just a concept to me. I don’t do well with homogeneity in anything other than milk. I need to see people who look like me living in harmony with folks who don’t, and I need my kids to see it too.

So, where exactly is this mythical land? I’m not sure if it exists. The most cosmopolitan places I can think of are not always on the sea coast, and many coastal communities are not particularly diverse. Maybe I need an island…?

This may seem like a total cop out, but I really can’t say for sure. I love big cities like NYC, Paris, London, and Madrid, but they aren’t on the ocean and I’ve been to them all. I have always been fascinated by West Africa, the Middle East, East Africa, and India, but I’m not sure I could get used to the differences of culture and language — food would NOT be a problem, however!

Australia has a lot of coastline, but far too many sharks. Eastern Asia looks interesting, but language would be a significant barrier.

Where would I go that I haven’t already gone?

I don’t have a clue.

Thankfully the point of the prompt, as I’m choosing to read it, was to discuss the idea and not necessarily to come up with the answer. This one’s just going to remain a cliffhanger, at least for now.

I’ll keep thinking