Ageism, Ableism, and Racism

Take a look at this fabulous 6-minute video on Disability Justice, created by Candice Kwok and Pallavi Kurakula, our undergrad interns, who made it as a final project for their Wayne State University Community Writing class, taught by Rachel Dortin. This summer, they worked with Advocates for Baba Baxter and the Collectivefor Disability Justice.

As much as I love the video and the message, and appreciate their hard work, it took me a minute (ie several days) to get past my appearance on the video. I had no idea post-menopause had given me jowls, loose facial skin hanging from my jaw. I had no idea I looked so oooold. When I look in the bathroom mirror, I’m happy enough with my appearance. But I never check out my profile!

I was always one of those girls who looked way too young. Petite and round cheeked and high energy, when I was 18, I looked 14. When I was a mother of 3 at 27, I looked 20, and got treated like a kid. As an Asian American woman, I tend to be seen as a perpetual outsider, a service worker, lower class, and child-like. I never felt like I got my due respect, even when I was running households and organizations and projects. I always lied about my age, in the other direction. When I was 27, I’d say I was “almost 30.” I couldn’t wait to turn 40, and maybe, finally, be treated as an adult.

No one ever believed me when I corrected them about my age. One way white supremacy works is disrespecting seniority and status of people of color, like calling grown men “boy.” Because I looked youthful, white folks felt free to dismiss me and talk down to me, or treat me like a mascot or a little doll. It’s dehumanizing, hurtful, and insulting. Folks meant well enough, but it didn’t soften the effects.

Sometime around menopause, at age 50 or so, people stopped remarking on my youthful apprearance. At long last, I was “looking my age.” I spotted little crinkles at the outer corners of my eyes as I was brushing my teeth, saying “eeee.” I rubbed my face, thinking it was dirt, until I realized they were permanent lines on my face! My hair was finally getting a peppering of white hairs, my tanned arms were getting saggy near the elbows.

Ageism runs deep through the generations. I recall my mother and aunties asking me as a child to pull out their white hairs while they sat and talked story. They slathered themselves with all manner of expensive products to prevent wrinkles. But I proudly sport my white hairs, framing my aging face, grateful for my signs of seniority. My mother would be rolling in her grave.

Back in my birthplace, South Korea, you don’t even see white hair. Even halmonis and even some harabojis (grandmas and grandpas) dye their hair jet black. It’s considered rude to show up otherwise. What was the norm before Western domination and the American Empire established themselves on the Korean peninsula? I can’t help associating ageism with racism, capitalism and the colonized mind. South Koreans have a love/hate relationship with all things American. While most claim to be proudly and distinctly Korean, their economy is dependent on the USA, as America’s 6^th largest trading partner. This comes after American-backed genocide, family separations, dictatorships, and decades of military presence, still ongoing.

The colonized mind shows up as internalized shame, wanting to do better, look better, and compete for higher status. I recognize this as my family legacy. Nothing’s wrong with excellence. But when excellence comes at the expense of one’s heart and soul, and one’s community, it’s time to step back, look at the bigger picture, as well as bravely gaze within.

Same with beauty. We all crave beauty, which is closely tied to pleasure. We celebrate the beautiful sunset, a magnificent lake, a gorgeously presented meal. But who defines physical beauty? Who defines femme beauty? What does the the pursuit of personal beauty cost?

I am a militant anti-ageist, as opposed to being anti-aging. When people used to tell me, with the kindest of intentions, “You look so young for your age.” I would tell them that there was nothing wrong with looking one’s age, that aging wasn’t something to avoid, but rather to embrace, and that I looked forward to looking old. I swore up and down that aging IS beautiful, and that society was wrong to idolize youthful appearance.

But the jowls.

I admit I am casual about my appearance. Mostly I DGAF. I don’t wear makeup, or even own any. I’m not even one of those super consistent moisturizing people. I rub some extra virgin olive oil into my skin after my shower, and that is it. I’ve always loved the sun, and do not use skin protection.

Could I have prevented getting jowls?

I came across a hilarious ad on Facebook that I could not resist clicking. It was an older Japanese woman teaching something she calls “Face Yoga.” She is selling a series of facial exercises designed to prevent wrinkles and sagging. Apparently the one that would help me involves opening my mouth very very wide, then wrapping my lips around my teeth and holding it several seconds. I’m supposed to do it every time I’m peeing. Not because it has anything to do with the urinary system, but because it’s a convenient and private time.

It seems harmless and maybe it could help… but for me, it plays the edge between self-help and self-hate. I mean, does this do anything for me besides make my face more muscular? Does it affect my health, my mind, my overall well-being? Maybe so, if my well-being is based on looking youthful.

Instead, I choose to take the radical stance of letting myself get old, and look old. Amidst the pressure, especially on women, of “preserving” their youth and lying about their age, I choose to let it all hang out. My task is not to fit in and succeed within a status quo which is patriarchal, misogynist, racist, and ableist. My task is to subvert the dominant paradigm, and build something revolutionary that is affirming to me and my people.

As a longtime Iyengar Yoga practitioner, 5 years post-menopause, I am noticing changes in my body. I’m losing muscle, my joints are looser, and I am more prone to injury. I am invested in staying strong, healthy, and active in the coming decades. After all, I have grandchildren to play with and care for. I am committed to maintaining or intensifying my yoga practice so my body, inside and out, will last another 20-30 years at least, and I can be present for my babies.

But my grandchildren DGAF about wrinkles, gray hair, or jowls. They just want me to play with them, climb trees with them, and follow them down the slide. My appearance is of no consequence.

Essentially, I believe the preoccupation with looking youthful, for all genders, has to do with ableism and abhinivesha (fear of death). We’re scared of the very elderly, just as we’re frightened by people with disabilities. Just about everyone is afraid of losing their independence and the process of losing their abilities. If we live long enough, we will all become disabled: our sight and hearing will become weaker, we will lose physical strength, we will lose cognitive function, and we will become less mobile. Who will take care of me? we wonder, and anxiously lay in bed worrying.

We need a structural overhaul of society to accommodate the disabled of all ages. Every city should have dozens of intergenerational ecovillages with a mix of abilities. These villages should have land for growing food, their own windmills, solar panels, and water cisterns, with universally designed facilities to accommodate both the very young and the very old, and everyone in between. We need to cultivate interdependence. The concept of independence, so treasured in our society, doesn’t exist anywhere in nature, and feeds into the mythology and narrative of self-sufficiency. No. What is much more realistic and sustainable are societies where all abilities are welcomed and embraced, and the temporarily-abled gladly support the disabled, knowing they will take their turn soon enough. Each and every one of us evolves from being totally dependent, as infants, to increasing independence as we grow up, then return to dependence once we are aged.

What happens after that? I would like to go back to the earth in a burlap sack, let my body feed the earthworms, and have a fruit tree growing over my grave. I hope I will be remembered by at least a few folks, and maybe have some of these essays read and re-read. Meanwhile, I will return to spirit, where I came from before this incarnation, and my work and evolution will continue from that realm. When it’s my time, I want to leave with no fear and no regrets.

I refuse to fear aging. I’m learning to look at my jowls and not be afraid. I am entering the years of my second Saturn return, as I turn 56 on October 31, 2019. I am entering my 9^th 7-year cycle on earth. On the cusp of my 8^th 7-year cycle and my Jupiter return, turning 49, I moved to Detroit, and I will never look back. What will age 56 and up bring? Let’s face it: I’m no longer in the ego-busting throes of being middle-aged. Fuck that shit. I am entering my elder years. I have no doubt it will be more glorious than ever.