By Laura Whitehorn (Senior Editor, POZ)
About a year ago, shortly after I turned 65, I began to notice that people on the subway were regularly offering me their seats. Along with senior discounts, it took some of the sting out of aging. The arthritis, aches and pains, high blood pressure, and little skin cancers that keep showing up--not so much.
I can't complain, though. Everything considered, I spend much of each day happily appreciating my good fortune. I have a job, a girlfriend, a home, good friends. I am well aware that I have escaped the fate of many of my friends who, at much younger ages, died during the early days of the AIDS epidemic.
And I have HIV-positive friends who take more daily pills at age 40 than the three I take every day. I am HIV negative and aging at pretty much the standard rate--not accelerated by a virus (though 14 plus years of prison did nothing to extend my longevity).
There is another downside of aging, however, and it too makes me think about HIV: the aspect of aging that includes being disrespected or ignored in this youth-crazed society. This carries echoes of HIV stigma.
I feel exposed. My frailties have become visible, with liver spots, a tremor in one hand, wrinkles and thinning hair (it's been grey for ages). I always feel that people living with HIV--even without any visible sign, like facial wasting--are more exposed than negative people, because when you tell someone you're positive, they want to know (even if they're too polite to ask) how you got it.
Then they possess an intimate piece of your past, your personal life. Meanwhile, you are fairly certain to know less about them and their history.
I also have become aware that when people look past me or through me, when they treat me with disrespect or impatience (even if I'm moving just as fast as they are), it is their fear speaking. I concluded this when I realized that the people most apt to show, by body language or otherwise, that they find my existence troublesome are not the twenty-somethings, but those inching towards their own middle age.
In their eyes, I represent their future--and even though I don't really feel old, to a 40-year-old, it looks scary. Younger people might still believe (as I did at their age) that they will never grow old. Those in their 40s, though, see it coming. My wrinkles alone are enough to make someone about to enter middle age run screaming for the moisturizer.
Imperfect old broad that I am, I do it too. I find myself impatient and annoyed when I'm behind a slow-moving older person, maybe one leaning unsteadily on a walker. I look at the cane or walker and wonder subconsciously whether that item is in my future. Being anything less than completely independent and able to scale tall buildings in a single bound is terrifying. The more real it becomes, the more I want to reject it.
There are a zillion faces of HIV stigma, and this sort of fear is only one. But when people shy away from positive people, I think at least in part they are avoiding thoughts of their own vulnerability--not to mention the reminder that "sex, drugs and rock 'n roll" are not as safe as we once thought.
But maybe the best conclusion to draw is that yes, we are one another's future. Good, bad or ugly, we either share it or else we face it alone.
About a year ago, shortly after I turned 65, I began to notice that people on the subway were regularly offering me their seats. Along with senior discounts, it took some of the sting out of aging. The arthritis, aches and pains, high blood pressure, and little skin cancers that keep showing up--not so much.
I can't complain, though. Everything considered, I spend much of each day happily appreciating my good fortune. I have a job, a girlfriend, a home, good friends. I am well aware that I have escaped the fate of many of my friends who, at much younger ages, died during the early days of the AIDS epidemic.
And I have HIV-positive friends who take more daily pills at age 40 than the three I take every day. I am HIV negative and aging at pretty much the standard rate--not accelerated by a virus (though 14 plus years of prison did nothing to extend my longevity).
There is another downside of aging, however, and it too makes me think about HIV: the aspect of aging that includes being disrespected or ignored in this youth-crazed society. This carries echoes of HIV stigma.
I feel exposed. My frailties have become visible, with liver spots, a tremor in one hand, wrinkles and thinning hair (it's been grey for ages). I always feel that people living with HIV--even without any visible sign, like facial wasting--are more exposed than negative people, because when you tell someone you're positive, they want to know (even if they're too polite to ask) how you got it.
Then they possess an intimate piece of your past, your personal life. Meanwhile, you are fairly certain to know less about them and their history.
I also have become aware that when people look past me or through me, when they treat me with disrespect or impatience (even if I'm moving just as fast as they are), it is their fear speaking. I concluded this when I realized that the people most apt to show, by body language or otherwise, that they find my existence troublesome are not the twenty-somethings, but those inching towards their own middle age.
In their eyes, I represent their future--and even though I don't really feel old, to a 40-year-old, it looks scary. Younger people might still believe (as I did at their age) that they will never grow old. Those in their 40s, though, see it coming. My wrinkles alone are enough to make someone about to enter middle age run screaming for the moisturizer.
Imperfect old broad that I am, I do it too. I find myself impatient and annoyed when I'm behind a slow-moving older person, maybe one leaning unsteadily on a walker. I look at the cane or walker and wonder subconsciously whether that item is in my future. Being anything less than completely independent and able to scale tall buildings in a single bound is terrifying. The more real it becomes, the more I want to reject it.
There are a zillion faces of HIV stigma, and this sort of fear is only one. But when people shy away from positive people, I think at least in part they are avoiding thoughts of their own vulnerability--not to mention the reminder that "sex, drugs and rock 'n roll" are not as safe as we once thought.
But maybe the best conclusion to draw is that yes, we are one another's future. Good, bad or ugly, we either share it or else we face it alone.
Laura - Thanks for writing this column. You are a natural born Buddhist, open heart, open mind. I liked your column (and I not only sympathize with the aches and pains but share them.)
With globalization and Chiamerican economics serving only a few in this world of GDP, just a quality of life for persons living on the poverty line in an increasing unbalanced principles of deregulation. We all value justice, trade, and human rights. The next 20 years might prove a continuation into complete insanity on a global scale.
Very insightful observation. As a person of color these are feelings I have experienced prior to aging and my HIV status. Humans are very complex, yet simple beings.
You said it quite clearly. We are one another's future. we either share it or else we face it alone.
I am doing everything I can to share it and not have to face it alone.
Thank you.
Laura: Thank you so much for your commentary. You might find this article (citation below) interesting as it deals with ageism and HIV stigma. If you cannot find a copy, let me know.
I appreciate your personal perspective on this.
Charles Emlet
Emlet, C. A. (2006). “You’re awfully old to have this disease”: Experiences of stigma and ageism in adults 50 years an older living with HIV/AIDS. The Gerontologist, 46, 781-790.
That was a interesting take how we are seem to another, being a 40 baby things has change in mylife which I can not see old photo of myself anymore. The look I get once I show my picture IS THAT YOU but I have to move on an just live great stories
As a long-term survivor (30 years) and now over 65. I am the last of the dinosaurs. LST groups found me the oldest and too old to just socialize with. After a 30-year partnership, I am a widow/widower with no contemporary friends in the area. Fortunately, I have the stamina to still work PT but living alone in our house with pets finds me reclusive and very lonely. Correct anti-depressants and Ritalin are what keeps me alive.
For a long time I felt I was aging at pretty much the standard rate--not accelerated by the virus that my body, with the help of each advance in medication, has fought for nearly 25 years. That perception is no longer clear to me.
"Then they possess an intimate piece of your past, your personal life. Meanwhile, you are fairly certain to know less about them and their history." I have usually had no problem sharing intimate history so that others might learn from my trip through life bust your are right that it is hard to know more about them as they walk away.
Fanned and Faved on your post A. Bracho. Add age along with being a gay senior person of color. Gay male years are like dog years with so much over emphasis on youth among young men. That makes me 462 dog years old.
Seque right into senior years after surviving AIDS and cancer twice, and I'm still dancing while barking past my athlete injuries. Full Blown AIDS and cancer was so much worse than my aches and pains... for me. My mom and I laugh off and on about the senior medicines that we both take that are similar and that I've lived to have this chuckle with her about this similarity. Most people experience their bodies began to decline and most of us die from some sort of illness in most cases, not to appear grim. Waiting for my Benjamine Button in reverse moment.