Why the “old people are cool” campaign does a disservice to old people
There exists a well intentioned campaign with buttons and tee-shirts saying “Old People Are Cool,” and it’s not true.
Old people are not cool. They are just…people.
Some are cool. Many are not. Walk into any gathering of old people and you will find all the groups, subgroups, niches and nuances of high school.
Geeks. Dorks. Type A’s. Rah Rah’s. Hippies. Greasers. Straights. Gays. Republicans. Leftists. Zeros. And oh yes…and the occasional truly cool person.
Branding them all “cool” is a disservice to the cool and the uncool, for it lumps old people together as a homogenous group and makes tragic assumptions catering to the efficiency of institutionalized senior care. Food prep, trip planning, decor, music selection, and even medical care are then based on these assumptions.
Where then is the individual? Lost. There are no shades of grey. Only grey.
I understand the campaign and am uncritical of its intentions. If you are a boomer like me, then you grew up in the cult of youth and beauty, one that is at best ambivalent toward the aged and at worst in denial — in denial of aging, of decay, of dreams lost, of losses, terrible losses, of our bodies and minds, of control, and of opportunity. In denial of death.
It’s entirely understandable that we would want to put lipstick on this beast.
But saying “old people are cool” is the ageist equivalent of saying “all black people can dance” — instances of errant, societal prejudice. Unopposed, the cool campaign will unwittingly support institutionalized care where every peg is round and every problem is a nail, just like in high school.
Let us, rather, hold a different vision for our elders, one that acknowledges, embraces, nurtures and supports shades of grey — wonderfully unique people riding alone or gathered together in community. Let us celebrate the individual — a person who weathered a long, hard struggle to become unlike any other — one of a kind.
Not cool.
Not uncool.
They just are.
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Epilogue
As with many things I write, I originally posted this essay on the Dance Past Sunset Facebook page so that I can get some early feedback from my friends there. Surprise, surprise…one of those turned out to be the originators of the campaign themselves! Their comment was very polite, showing them to be a class act. It was “We appreciate the constructive feedback! It is true, Old People Are Cool – just like everyone else. Thank you for joining the discussion about combating ageism.” I am grateful they took the time to read the post and connect!
The idea that all people are cool reminded me of the 1970 hit by Ray Steven’s “Everything is Beautiful.” A lovely thought, and to God and your momma (of which I am neither)…everything is.
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I Am a Racist
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.
Mark Twain
I often hear nowadays, people being accused.
“He’s a racist.”
“She’s a racist.”
“Trump’s a racist.”
“So and so’s a racist.”
What I have yet to hear is: “I am a racist.”
So let me be the first.
I am a racist.
Yes.
I see the ugly thing, creeping around my soul like a roach in the kitchen. I squash it, but sometime later, there it is again.
I know there is a nest somewhere, eggs hatching, a source deep within me, hidden away where it’s easy to deny. There is where I'll find the library of my false beliefs, the lies I tell myself over and over, so often they become grooves cut into my gray matter, like fissures in rock where the water runs down, cutting deeper and deeper, until fissures become swales, and swales become canyons.
When did the first racist raindrop fall? I don’t know. As a child, for sure. How many drops of poison does it take to pollute the vessel of pure water of which we are born? When, exactly, does a person become a racist, and who gets to decide?
I don’t know, but then, neither does anyone else.
I don’t believe in permanence. That’s one thing the Buddhists have taught me.
Everything changes.
We can become aware of that library of false beliefs, that nest of nasties that colors our perception of things, often for the worse. Awareness alone brings change. We can cut new grooves. My challenge as a human being is not to deny that I am a racist, for that would be as foolish as denying I have cancer when I really do. My challenge is, rather, to stop the cancer from metastasizing and poisoning the whole man.
I doubt I will ever fully eradicate my racism. Unfortunately, I suspect some vestige of it will always be with me. But what I can do, and what I do do, is expose myself to experiences that lessen my racism, those being travel, kind and honest conversation, and breaking bread with “the others” whenever I can. These experiences, like wind and rain, smooth rock and, over time, lay low even the highest mountains.
So when I hear the angry crowd shouting, "He’s a racist,” I want to ask:
“Who among you is not a racist? Stand up then and take a bow...for you are surely a god.”
I moved to Substack!
Hi there. If you've read this far, then you enjoy, or are at least intrigued by, my ideas. If you want to learn more, jump over to my new website on Substack, where I continue to write about travel, the second half of life, and other mad musings.