Recently I found myself sitting by a window looking out on the pedestrian parade walking by on the sidewalk outside. I was not in a big city like New York or San Francisco or Chicago, but a metropolitan area none-the-less. I realized that the variety of the passing pedestrians was not what it had been in my youth. First there was what one would expect ---- various people dressed in shorts or summer dresses for it was a hot day. But then a very queenly black woman walked by in bright sarong affair with the most beautiful and complicated head dress crowning her outfit. A few minutes later another woman walked by in a very fashionable pantsuit with a hijab that matched the color of her ensemble. There were baggy jeans worn low on the hips and held up only by a hope and a prayer, and the ubiquitous black stretch pants on every other woman. Baseball hats were worn by both sexes with the visor in front or just as often turned to the back. The hair on these pedestrians ranged from short to long in all different colors and styles – just as often short on women and long on men with complicated braids, dreadlocks, and upswept curls.
I thought back to my childhood in the fifties, remembering a day I was riding on the streetcar with my grandmother on the way to visit the Smithsonian Museum in downtown Washington DC. A group of young sailors was on the on the same car, obviously sightseeing for the day. As we approached the center of town, the streetcar made a stop, the doors opened, and onto the bus came a black man dressed in a bright blue gown that swept to the floor. His head was covered in an elaborately tied material of the same bright color. He was striking to say the least. I heard a noise and looked over at one of the young sailors who looked like a cartoon version of shock: his mouth was agape, and he was silently mouthing ‘Oh, my God.’
As I think back to that day, I know that young sailor was not necessarily racist, or mean, or critical. He had probably just come from an area where such sights were not only not common, but more to the point, never seen. He was out in the world and the world had taken him by surprise. For those of us who lived in or near the nation’s capital, home of embassies from around the world, while such sights were unusual they did not cause us the shock that this young man felt.
Perhaps it is always more comfortable to live in a world where everyone wears the same recognizable things, where there is a strict distinction between male and female, and there are no surprises. On the other hand, perhaps we need to be jolted out of our complacencies to understand that there are many different ways, other than ours, to live a life. While at times this can be difficult, it can bring great growth and freedom.
Recently while vacationing in a small mountain town in the West, I took a road that led by the local high school. I began to pass a number of students out running who were obviously on the fall cross-country team. The lead group of about four all looked like upper classmen, well built and striding along comfortably at a brisk pace. As I drove, I passed more groups following the leaders, but all of them were running at a slower pace, looking as if they were struggling a bit more. I thought I had passed them all until a long distance later I spotted a lone runner heading in the same direction.
This runner was very small, his hair flopped over his eyes which he kept brushing back from his glasses. He was obviously laboring, but still running with a determined look on his face. He did not look as if he were in the same school with the comfortable, muscled group that had been leading the pack. But he was giving it his all. He was still running.
I was suddenly filled with admiration for this small determined young boy and mentally wished him all the best in his quest to be on the team. Whatever his route in life may be, the courage he showed in tackling something which was difficult for him will stand him in good stead.
I then thought about myself and the difficulties that seem to present themselves as one marks the eighth decade of life. These are challenges are new and different from what one felt at 20, and it takes a great deal of determination to keep running at this stage of life. I hope that I can express as much courage now at this time in my life as that young boy reaching for the cross-country team. He is an inspiration.
We can have old things like old cars, old books, old furniture, old houses and old clothes. But we avoid the designation of old when referring to people. In order to avoid this, society has come up with some great euphemisms to dodge that dreaded word when connected to humans. Here are some of my favorites.
I just read an article in the New Yorker magazine about trauma. As always, the article was dense, literary, and full of references, some of which I knew and some of which I did not. In simplified form it said that the basis of many books, movies and television programs today seems to rest on the past trauma of the lead character, which is given out in snippets as the story unfolds.
My father-in-law lived to be 104. We moved him to a retirement community near our home when he was a mere 95, and began the business of taking care of someone who was gradually fading. My husband did most of the heavy lifting in this process as he was a very faithful and devoted son. On the times I accompanied him to see my father-in-law, I was struck by the fact that except for the residents, there were very few males in evidence. Although the visitor parking lot was always full, the cars that drove into it were driven almost exclusively by women.
Growing up I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents. My mother and I lived with them for extended periods of time. In addition, they kept me over summer holidays and vacations, and I had great spend-the-night weekends with them. In my mind they were neither old nor young ---- they were just my grandparents.
This phrase is often an unspoken comment indicated by a sigh or slightly raised eyebrow as I try and figure out whether this time I sign my name on the card machine or not, or if the card slides down at the side or jams in at the bottom, or if now some financial institution wants to know the name of my great-great grandmother before I can access my money.
This last weekend I attended the college graduation of one of my grandchildren. As the graduates trooped across the stage to collect their hard-earned diplomas the scene blurred a little as I thought back to my graduation 58 years ago, followed by the graduation of my daughters more years ago than I think can be possible.
