BY JOELLEN COLLINS
The Peace Corps labeled me a “senior” when I joined at the age of 53. I was embarrassed by that term and, indeed, it wasn’t really apt to describe anyone over 50 who opted for that type of adventure. The interesting thing was that, in Thailand, where I served, I was accorded the honors of the elderly, a respectful attitude that prompted the first question Thais asked when we were introduced, “How old are you?” Then they could address me with the appropriate moniker for my age.
Actually, most of the 60 other volunteers were in their early twenties. I could have felt estranged from them, but I learned to enjoy my role as both a surrogate aunt or mother, but also as a buddy who would get on a bus to unknown parts of Thailand to hang out, talk, laugh, and sit up all night with my young compatriots. So I also benefitted from being viewed as not quite the ancient crone the “senior” label indicated.
I was thinking about this the other day when I related this story to someone who was analyzing the language used to describe my age group. While being named a “senior” in high school or college is an appellation well received, that label has a different connotation when applied to members of AARP. In many cultures, a “senior” is admired and considered a positive resource for younger generations. Our society, with its mobility and changes in family patterns, may have lost some of the attitudes that prevail in places where generations are more mixed and older people often live close to and partake in the lives of their progeny.
I’ve always studied the way language and connotations, the added emotions we add to words, change. The semanticist S.I. Hayakawa cited terms such as those describing weight. Is a thin girl skinny, bony, emaciated, slender, svelte, or skeletal? Am I ancient, matronly, an old bag, elderly or just aged? Some older women don’t want to be called Grandma or Nana because it conjures up the reality of their age. I am not ashamed of my age because it is something I haven’t chosen. I was born when I was born. I’m grateful to be healthy, happy and active whatever age I am.
So be it. My last night in Thailand, at our daily evening sharing of food on the grass near my modest digs, Tawatchi, my neighbor, said, “Mama Jo, we know they don’t take good care of older people in your country. We want you to know that you will always have a home with us if you need to.”
I visited my village many years later and Tawatchi showed me where his family now lived, in his mother’s home. He took me upstairs to the new addition, a sunny room with a sign above it carved with the words “Mama Jo’s room.” One can never feel old with memories like those and with people in the world like my Thai friends.
