Tonight I am grateful for the wisdom that comes with age and experience. Last night I participated in an event honoring Martin Luther King, Jr. I had been asked to offer a few closing thoughts and acknowledgments on a program that had featured welcoming remarks, a musical performance, a keynote speech, and awards. Throughout the day I had given some thought as to what I might say and jotted down a few notes and some MLK quotes that I wanted to use, but as I sat in the audience waiting for the program to begin, then as I listened to the keynote speech and other activities I was stunned to realize that virtually none of the speakers, including the president of our institution, had been alive when Martin Luther King walked the earth. Except for me.
As I took my place at the podium in front of the microphone, determined not to squint into the glare of the spotlights, I recounted a story from my childhood of what it was like in my family’s household the night Martin Luther King was assassinated. I looked out over this audience largely filled with college students who are younger than my children and work colleagues for whom I am the same age as their mothers and aunties, their older sisters, etc. One of the young professors who spoke talked about her father who had been born in 1950. 1950? I was born in 1957. It made me proud, I told the audience, to see the work that Dr. King had died for, the work that both of my parents did in the civil rights movement in the 1960s, and even my own work over the past 30 years in higher education bearing fruit in the personages of the young, passionate, talented college students and young professionals that were in that crowd.
As I headed out on my commute home, I called my younger sister–four years my junior–and asked her, “When did we get old?” She laughed and replied, “We’re not old!…Are we?” I laughed too because in every way except the number listed on my birth certificate and driver’s license I feel like I’m no more than 30. But of course that’s impossible…the young professor who spoke last night, she’s probably about 30, 35 tops. This morning, as I was recounting this story to one of the students who works in our office she assured me, “You’re not old!” (Which was very kind of her because I am likely to be a good 10 to 15 years older than her mother!)
The truth is, I don’t feel old, but suddenly I realize that I have become an elder–in a sense my body and chronological age has caught up to where my spiritual and emotional maturity has been for many, many years. While I am perhaps a little wiser than I was 25 or 30 years ago, now I finally look the part. I believe that eldership (the crone phase in adult womanhood) carries with it a weight of responsibility and at the same time a curious sense of liberation. It’s the responsibility to lead, teach, and guide without the pressure of having to be in charge of everything, no longer the same need to have to prove oneself. It’s the ability to say, “I’ve lived a while now and I’ve experienced some things, and I have a thing or two to tell that you might want to listen to.”
Generally speaking I have always had a healthy respect for my elders. I spent more time as a child and young person hanging out around and listening to adults than with kids my own age. As a teenager I occasionally found myself being asked for my opinions on things and at times even for guidance from some of the adults around me. It felt completely natural to me. As I got older and began working with college-aged students I gradually began the shift toward eldership and gaining the respect of the young people while also being relatively “cool” for someone my age. And although at times I embarrassed my kids, both they and their friends humored me when I asked them to explain the jargon and lingo of the day. Working with and around high school and college students kept me on my toes and able to communicate effectively with young people even though I was the same age as their parents.
It remains a fairly odd sensation to me to now be closer to 60 than 50–I can no longer claim to be “middle-aged.” Even though my grandfather lived to be 100, I think it highly unlikely that I’ll be able to stretch myself out to 112. I’m grateful to be who I am and where I am. I still have some challenges with where I find myself situated at my age. In some ways I feel like I’m starting from scratch in terms of where I thought my life would be at this age. But one can never fully predict where they are going to end up at a particular time, so I reckon I simply am where I am for this time, on this day, in this moment. And in a sense I am exactly where I am supposed to be. For now, that’s good enough for me.
