Lisa Hoffman & Charles Atkins

Published 3/10/05

Charlie writes:

"I have so much I need to tell you," Lisa starts, the minute I’m inside her condo. On account of a bad head cold, I haven’t seen her in over a week, and so before my coat and galoshes are off, she’s revving for a rant. "Why is it that because I’m older and need a walker, people assume, I’m stupid?" she begins.

"You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover," I respond, believing there’s a proverb, for every situation.

"People come into my house and start messing with things without asking? It seems like there should be some code of ethics. And more often than not, when they try to fix things, they make it worse. They mean well. I try to keep that in mind, but it’s driving me crazy."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," I reply while booting my computer and trying to figure the day’s topic.

"Why can’t they ask, and not just take over?"
"They leap before they look."

"Give me the courtesy of consulting before you do something I may not approve of in my own house."

"Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s." The Windows logo flashes across my screen…I’m ready. "So what happened?"

"I can’t go into the details, because it may offend the people involved. They’d recognize themselves."

"It is best to speak softly."

"But carry a big stick…otherwise you lose control. But why do people have the habit of talking down to me as if I were a child? It’s as though as you get older there’s an assumption that you lose IQ points with every step. Oops, there goes another one. It’s even worse because I have an accent; not only do they assume I’m old and stupid, but they shout at me, as though it makes what they’re saying more understandable."

"It’s ageism. Do you remember the film we made a couple years ago?" I say, referring to a training video produced by a company that provides continuing education for physicians and other professionals. It involved an entire film crew from New York—teleprompters and all—setting up shop in my house. Lisa was slated to do a couple scenes, as the elderly, mildly demented octogenarian who inadvertently overdoses on her medications. It was a full-day affair, and as it stretched on, I realized that no one was talking to her. "Do you remember how the crew treated you?"

"It’s what Henry [an ex boyfriend] used to refer to as chose negligable—a thing to be neglected, non existent…a second-class citizen"

"Why do you think that was?"

"They didn’t take the trouble to get to know me, and assumed, especially since I’d been cast as the doddering old woman and had worn a house dress to fit the part, that I was just ‘a senior.’ I hate that term."

"A rose by any other name…"

She cuts me a look.

"Okay, what’s wrong with being a senior?" I ask.

"It puts you into a category and makes you no longer an individual. It’s demeaning…Perhaps I’m over sensitive. I never thought of myself as being old—and I still don’t. ‘It’s just a number’ I told myself on my 80^th birthday, and again when I celebrated my 85th. Still, fate and my friends—and sometimes those who are not so friendly—make it a point to remind me of my mortality."

"Yes," I remark, "in every day and in every way…we’re one step closer to death."

"That’s terrible," she comments. "But yes, I remember a birthday card I received from a friend last May that detailed the death of several acquaintances. She ended by letting me know how glad she was that I was still alive. Happy Birthday, indeed! If you have nothing good to say…say nothing."

And that’s when it hits. Stereotypes are like the proverbs we’ve been spouting, they’re a way to lump complex things, ideas and people into sound bites. And because we hear them so often, we take them to be true. But are they? "Let’s try a game," I say to Lisa, "I’ll give you a saying, and you have to rebut it with an opposing one. Ready? The early bird catches the worm."

"That’s easy," she says, "Slow and steady wins the race."

"Here’s another…Third time’s a charm."

"Three strikes you’re out….or even better, if at first you don’t succeed try try again."

"They seem to cancel each other out," I comment. "Yet each holds some kernel of truth. And this is why stereotypes, and prejudice--such as ageism—are so dangerous. The bit of truth gets substituted for the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me…"

"You’re rambling," she says. "What are you trying to say?"

"Let’s take your complaint that people assume because you have infirmities and are over eighty that you must be senile. By the time folks hit eighty-five, roughly half will have some form of cognitive decline. We have over four and a half million people in this country with significant dementia, such as is seen with Alzheimer’s disease."

"But what about the other half?"

"Exactly, that’s why the generalization falls short. There are many octogenarians—and beyond--who stay sharp and productive."

"Like me. With age comes wisdom."

"Maybe yes, maybe no. But in your case, yes, you continue to learn and to grow. And the fact that you keep pumping out one to two pieces of writing a week—even after your stroke—shows the brain is still firing."

"It’s a mixed bag, growing older," she admits. "There are good points and bad. On the plus side, you get the senior discounts. I also find you can get away with being much more outspoken; I don’t care so much if people are offended by what I might have to say. And for those few who believe that people do accumulate wisdom, you may receive some deference. But the reality of getting older, the so-called Golden Years—and what a load of hooey that is--is that you’re constantly confronted by things you’d just as soon not deal with. Whether it’s being treated like a second-class citizen, or having to adapt to arthritis, vision loss, hearing loss, and all the other medical problems that creep up as the body ages."

"So how do you deal with all of that?" I ask.

"I’ve found that as I’ve gotten older, what’s important to me has changed. I no longer get upset by trivial things and I refuse to dwell on the bad parts. As someone once asked me as I was getting into the mini bus, ‘why are you always so cheerful?’ And I told them, because I’d rather live with a cheerful person."

"So your glass is half full?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "of wine that only improves with age."

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