I AM AN OLD WOMAN

In a recent conversation with a friend I casually referred to myself as an old woman. I am, after all, nearly eighty years old and by almost anyone’s reckoning would be deemed old. She admonished me: “It seems strange to hear you put yourself in the category of old woman. I think of you as young, sharp as a tack, and with-it.” While her response was flattering in that she thinks I am “sharp as a tack,” I could not help but wonder why she considered the words “old woman” pejorative rather than merely descriptive. Why is being an old woman something to be denied, as if shameful? Is it not possible to be “old, sharp as a tack, and with-it”? Why must I refrain from claiming the years I have lived, the things I have learned, the activities I have enjoyed or, in some cases, the suffering I have endured or the actions I regret?

An old woman is what I am; I was a young woman once, and then a middle-aged one, but I am finished with those stages of my life, and shall soon enter--joyfully, gratefully--my ninth decade on this earth. I have a sense of satisfaction when I look back at all those years of experiences, and am aware of how fortunate I am to have lived this long. As my friend’s comment suggests, however, many of us have a hopelessly disparaging view of aging; we think of old age as disagreeable, or deplorable, though I would argue that the alternative—never being old—is certainly not more desirable.

As we grow old, we have been conditioned to expect our brains to shrink, our bodies to wither, our appetites to dwindle, and our capacity for pleasure to disappear. Too many of us accept the paradigm of old age almost exclusively as a time of decrepitude, diminishment, and disease. That needs to change if we are to take full advantage of our late-life years. It is possible to acknowledge our losses, endure our illnesses, and face our failings without being defined by them. It is also advisable to embrace our aging, to appreciate its potential for healing, its opportunity for adventure, its gift of liberation, and its promise of wisdom.

Recently I came across this poem which reflects many of my feelings about being old. It is interesting that the poet's year of birth is 1927, one year before mine.

DON'T CALL ME A YOUNG WOMAN

Don’t call me a young woman.
I was a young woman for years
but that was then and this is now.
I was a mid life woman for a time
and I celebrated that good span.
Now I am somebody magnificent, new,
a seer, wise woman, old proud crone,
and example and mentor to the young
who need to learn old women wisdom.
I look back on jobs well done
and learn to do different tasks now.
I think great thoughts and share them.

Don’t call me a young woman.
You reveal your own fears of aging.
Maybe you’d better come learn from
all of us wonderful old women
how to take the sum of your life
with all its experience and knowledge
and show how a fully developed life
can know the joy of a past well done
and the joy of life left to live.

Don’t call me a young woman;
it’s not a compliment or courtesy
but rather a grating discourtesy.
Being old is a hard won achievement
not something to be brushed aside
treated as infirmity or ugliness
or apologized away by “young woman.”
I am an old woman, a long liver.
I’m proud of it. I revel in it.
I wear my grey hair and wrinkles
as badges of triumphant survival
and I intend to grow even older.

---Ruth Harriet Jacobs

(American, b. 1927)

( written in 1991)