I don't follow sports much, but the headline caught my eye anyway: "Aging Action Star Seeks Kickboxing Match". This was followed by the opening line that began "49-year-old Jean-Claude Van Damme..."
That the star in question was Van Damme did not surprise me. But that he (and therefore I) was considered at 49 to be "aging" was a little shock. I know I'm getting older: my joints don't always cooperate, I suspect that my current hair color is more salt than pepper, and every so often it strikes me that the person I just thought of as a "kid" is 30 years old.
But aging?
Then again, when cheese is old, I don't throw it out; when cheese is aged, I pay three times more for it. When wood is old, it becomes firewood. When it is aged, it ends up on the Antiques Road Show.
There is a richness about being aged that speaks of depth in our life experience. It hints that the passage of years has produced in us a rare spirit instead of vinegar. The word "aged" sparks images of wisdom, wealth of character, what in Spanish we might call "perfeccionamiento": attaining a more perfect condition.
My mother still plays the piano despite her nearly 80 years and arthritic fingers. My mother-in-law, who turns 86 this year, writes a weekly column for her local newspaper. My octogenarian father has circled the world and has a host of stories to share. A colleague, who is approaching his 65th wedding anniversary, is at the top of his professional game. Their years are etched in their bodies and engraved on their souls and they have aged with character.
I never really thought much about aging. My granddaughters have assured me that I won't be old until I'm 75. Until then, I'm just "getting older". Now, it feels perhaps appropriate to get up and and write to Steve Colfield, the blogger who wrote that headline, and tell him I have decided to skip getting older altogether, and just become gracefully aged. But my knees pop when I get up and it scares the dog.
Maybe instead I can just sit back, embrace aging and let it turn me into a character.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Waddling through life
Goofy Pooch and I took our usual 2-block waddle this evening. She's old, arthritic, and easily distracted, and basically just meanders beside the sidewalk while I try to keep her moving with encouraging little comments like, "You already sniffed that", and "Watch out for the...never mind".
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Press 1 for English
I've lost track of the number of emails that have come through my inbox complaining about "Press 1 for English, press 2 for Spanish..." As the voice for some of those "press Spanish" commands, I keep a stiff upper lip and try not to take it personally.
Alright, I've never even been tempted to take it personally. But the complaints do make me wonder sometimes. The degree of anxiety expressed is unmistakable.
Under our commercial system, it makes sense for businesses to invest time and money in attracting the broadest range of clientele. That includes clientele who might be more comfortable in another language. I doubt those who complain are really suggesting that we limit free enterprise.
Our government applies to many people whose native tongue is not English, but who have every legal right to be in this country: people like the Navajo (who got here long before most of us) or residents of Puerto Rico, or new citizens who may speak enough English to pass a test but not enough to understand the latest new, improved and simplified instructions from the IRS. Surely, no one upset over "press 1 for English" really wants to limit access to our government.
So, what then? Could it be that the anger behind the negative emails is something else entirely? Something to do with language and its connection to identity. Something that's less about immigration and more about a sense of acceptance or rejection?
As a kid growing up in South America, I knew a large number of expatriates from different walks of life. This was sometimes embarrassing. There were foreigners (including Americans), who lived among Spanish-speakers for years - and could do little more than buy their groceries in Spanish. To my local friends, it was cause for a philosophical shrug of the shoulders. Linked to these people by our common status as foreigners, I was outraged by their perceived rejection of my second country.
And then I moved to the United States.
To my surprise, nothing really changed. Nothing except that English was now the language not learned. And the offenders were not educated, or wealthy or well-traveled individuals. They were often uneducated immigrants from Third World countries around the globe.
Something changed in me, too. Linked to these immigrants by our common status as "people who grew up elsewhere," I responded with a level of sympathy that was lacking before.
By nature, I am analytical. Lacking something (or someone) else to analyze, I'm perfectly happy to dissect my own behavior. So, I did. Why the sympathy for non-English speakers in my first country, and irritation with non-Spanish speakers in my second country?
Perhaps it was because here in the USA, the response was indignation rather than a philosophical shrug. It was outrage at a perceived rejection.
Maybe it was because, unlike the foreigners in my second country, so many of the immigrants to the USA had left their home countries in order to survive, or see their children have a little better life.
Or maybe it was because the immigrants I saw here seemed to be so afraid of losing themselves in the process.
Just as, perhaps, those who came to live in my second country also feared losing themselves.
And maybe, perhaps, some of the people writing angry "English-only" emails are afraid of losing what is familiar to them as the world shifts to allow more languages on the telephone.
Despite now being filled with retroactive and apologetic sympathy toward those who mortified me as a youth, I still think that resenting a business for trying to expand its customer appeal is a waste of energy and email bandwidth. After all, if you were a business owner, and your market share would grow if you offered "press 3 for Pig Latin", ouldn'tway ouyay aye-tray itay?
Alright, I've never even been tempted to take it personally. But the complaints do make me wonder sometimes. The degree of anxiety expressed is unmistakable.
Under our commercial system, it makes sense for businesses to invest time and money in attracting the broadest range of clientele. That includes clientele who might be more comfortable in another language. I doubt those who complain are really suggesting that we limit free enterprise.
Our government applies to many people whose native tongue is not English, but who have every legal right to be in this country: people like the Navajo (who got here long before most of us) or residents of Puerto Rico, or new citizens who may speak enough English to pass a test but not enough to understand the latest new, improved and simplified instructions from the IRS. Surely, no one upset over "press 1 for English" really wants to limit access to our government.
So, what then? Could it be that the anger behind the negative emails is something else entirely? Something to do with language and its connection to identity. Something that's less about immigration and more about a sense of acceptance or rejection?
As a kid growing up in South America, I knew a large number of expatriates from different walks of life. This was sometimes embarrassing. There were foreigners (including Americans), who lived among Spanish-speakers for years - and could do little more than buy their groceries in Spanish. To my local friends, it was cause for a philosophical shrug of the shoulders. Linked to these people by our common status as foreigners, I was outraged by their perceived rejection of my second country.
And then I moved to the United States.
To my surprise, nothing really changed. Nothing except that English was now the language not learned. And the offenders were not educated, or wealthy or well-traveled individuals. They were often uneducated immigrants from Third World countries around the globe.
Something changed in me, too. Linked to these immigrants by our common status as "people who grew up elsewhere," I responded with a level of sympathy that was lacking before.
By nature, I am analytical. Lacking something (or someone) else to analyze, I'm perfectly happy to dissect my own behavior. So, I did. Why the sympathy for non-English speakers in my first country, and irritation with non-Spanish speakers in my second country?
Perhaps it was because here in the USA, the response was indignation rather than a philosophical shrug. It was outrage at a perceived rejection.
Maybe it was because, unlike the foreigners in my second country, so many of the immigrants to the USA had left their home countries in order to survive, or see their children have a little better life.
Or maybe it was because the immigrants I saw here seemed to be so afraid of losing themselves in the process.
Just as, perhaps, those who came to live in my second country also feared losing themselves.
And maybe, perhaps, some of the people writing angry "English-only" emails are afraid of losing what is familiar to them as the world shifts to allow more languages on the telephone.
Despite now being filled with retroactive and apologetic sympathy toward those who mortified me as a youth, I still think that resenting a business for trying to expand its customer appeal is a waste of energy and email bandwidth. After all, if you were a business owner, and your market share would grow if you offered "press 3 for Pig Latin", ouldn'tway ouyay aye-tray itay?
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