The Gero-Punk Project

Hello there, happy Thursday!

What’s going on?

Had any provocative experiences lately? How about staggering new insights? Make any new friends? Break any habits? Change your mind? Surprise yourself? Embark on an adventure? Celebrate the mundane? Invite your inner 8 year old over for a play-date? Toast to the bittersweet complexities of this life with your future older self?

Whatever you’ve been up to, I hope you are swell.

As for me, I’m teaching (and learning) a lot this term.

One of the courses I get to teach is Learning: A Fundamental Human Process.  Kind of a funny title, isn’t it (I inherited the course)? But it is also a title that contains a deep truth: We humans are always in a state of learning, whether we know it or not, whether we bring intentionality to our learning or we don’t.  I kept the title when I inherited the course but I started from scratch and redesigned it from the ground up.  It is a fully on-line 11-week course. The primary focus is learning in adulthood, including in old age. We have one assigned text that we use for the first few weeks (Learning in adulthood, by Merriam, Caffarella, and Baumgartner); after that, what we read is determined by questions generated by students in the course.

You see, the course is designed around a mash-up of principles gathered from participatory inquiry; critical social theory; andragogy, geragogy, and heutagogy; and social constructivism.  I know, I just threw a bunch of big words at you, but not so as to obfuscate or be a smarty-pants, but to, perhaps, pique your interest! (Nested glossary, anyone?) And to prove to you that I only have good intentions, I’ll translate the serious concepts, as any self-respecting gero-punk should be willing to do. (Why do concepts take themselves so darn seriously?)

Translation: I’ve choreographed the course in such a way as to create a learning community in which all members (students, teacher, and teaching assistant) are simultaneously students and teachers — co-learners and experts about our own experiences, and legitimate makers of meaning and knowledge.  The learning projects are collaborative and layered, unfolding over many weeks. The topics for discussion emerge from the members of the learning community; as the “professor,” I offer either meta-questions — questions that instigate deep reflection and critical analysis of the readings, not necessarily about the content of the readings per se – and I offer microscopic, auto-ethnographic questions – questions that tap into each individual’s experiences as a learner. But what happens next depends on where everyone else decides to move the discussion. We think together, we share stories, we critically reflect on the assigned readings, we bring in outside sources, we ask one another questions.  Oh, and there’s a really important commitment to praxis woven throughout everything we do: How do we go about enacting the stuff we are reading about and discussing and what  happens when we do?

Part of my praxis is to inject any learning experience I can with gero-punk principles. As you might know (or suspect), I’m a proponent of infusing aging awareness “across the curriculum” (and at all levels of education), as well as taking all of this stuff to the streets – public gerontology, gero-punk style! As well, I aspire to be present to natural moments when a conversation about aging and later life and being old might happen.

So, I thought I’d share with you a recent discussion thread from the Learning course, a conversation between me, Art Burke (a student in the course), and Stephanie Lillegard (the teaching assistant for the course). Art is a student in Human Studies, a veteran, and a newish dad. After he completes his undergraduate degree he plans to become a social worker.  Stephanie is in the last year of her interdisciplinary studies degree; she took Learning last year and I invited her back this year to serve as teaching assistant. She’s a writer, community educator, mother of two adult children, and is in the middle of a muddle about what’s next for her.

Here’s our conversation:

Art: Rather than aging itself being the cause of a decline in intellectual ability, it was suggested in the reading that it may be caused by misuse or lack of use, which kind of goes with last week’s post about our society’s treatment of the elderly. I wonder how much of what we think of as the defining characteristics of old age, such as forgetfulness, are actually caused by the conditions we have created for our elderly.   If the loss of intelligence is mostly attributable to lack of use, obviously we, as a society, need to find a way to keep intelligence and learning in active use by people of all ages. Even if definitive research were to show that intellectual decline is directly caused by aging, creating an environment that the elderly could thrive and learn as long as possible in would be beneficial to the elderly and society.

Merriam et al. (2007) write, “Every person’s brain is as unique as their face” (p. 416). I found this information to be fascinating, and it explains why understanding the brain is so difficult. At this point, it seems that most definitive statements on the relationship between learning and the brain are actually not definitive. This chapter seems to define cognitive behavior as a product of the brain only, and the mind is explained as actually a part of the brain. To me, it seems a bit contradictory to state that the scientific community does not really know how the brain works, but that they do know that it does a and b, so it must do c and d.  Bottom line, until I see definitive and empirical research that directly proves the brain is responsible for all of our functioning, I am going to continue to hold onto the idea that all of our functioning is an integrative process, which consists of many, many different parts of a whole.

This week’s chapter has given me valuable information about how intelligence actually, or might, function in adults. I found the research on intelligence and aging highly insightful. As a result of this information, I will try to stimulate my older friends’ intelligence whenever possible, and I will also try to spread the idea that learning is happening from birth to death. From interactions with many awesome older folks throughout my life, I always knew that any stereotype about people becoming stupid and slow with age was absolutely false, and knowing that research actually backs it up, in some cases, is really satisfying.

As far as my insights on the brain, I think I will continue to operate under the assumption that human learning and functioning is an integrative process. If someone I knew was to have a brain injury, and the prognosis was that they would not be able speak again, I would have faith in the fact that everyone’s brain is mapped a little differently. Basically, until evidence proves otherwise, I will not assume specific parts of the brain are solely responsible for any one function.

Isn’t the idea of an “intelligence gene” really scary? As the chapters discussed, intelligence is totally subjective, and because there are so many theories on multiple types of intelligence, such as Gardner’s multiple intelligence, I don’t see how the scientific community would agree on any one gene being responsible for intelligence. Once again, I think learning is an integrative process with many, many variables, and I really believe that every single human being is uniquely intelligent in their own way. The field of genetics really scares me sometimes – what about you guys?

Jenny: Art, there’s so much about your post that has my mind excited! Thank you!

You are a gero-punk in the making! You are seeing through ageist stereotypes and engaging in critical thinking about aging and old age. You are spot-on that expectation shapes behavior. To whit: If there are societal expectations that older adults will have failing memory, become more conservative, and sexless, then not only will younger people internalize these ageist stereotypes, but older adults will as well, thus expecting that all of these things are normal and to be expected.

There’s a further dilemma–what happens when an older adult doesn’t manifest failing memory, gets more radical, and still enjoys sexual intimacy? They may be seen by others as extraordinary and abnormal simultaneously. And the extent to which they have a hardy sense of self, they might ignore the societal messages, or, if they don’t have the ability to resist ageist stereotypes, they might wonder if there’s something wrong with them.

I’m convinced as a gerontologist that it is always better to make the mistake of being optimistic and expecting that development continues until we go back to the stars, rather than expecting that the last third of life is all about decline and decrepitude

Stephanie: Art, I’d like to echo what Jenny says about how you’re challenging the stereotypes.

I have seen over and over that the very young, the very old, persons with disabilities of some sort (and that counts the “disabilities” that are just ways of being in the world that don’t match up with expectations) … well, they’re not Producers, y’know? They’re people who don’t “make money” (who “makes” money anyway? What a silly phrase that is!) – they’re not productive in a work work work and get more and more pay kind of way.

In fact, if, as you age, you want LESS of the “success” model for your life, then there’s just something quaint and weird and doddery about you, and in our culture at least, no one seems to know what to do with that person.

So, the field of genetics doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the for-profit research and development and marketing that might be done with genetics (just as it is with everything else). It’s not intelligence that’s scary to me, or genetics, or science of any kind, but a kind of opposite of those things (hmm! I just put this together, thinking about your questions here – thank you!). It’s the smaller life that scares me. The smaller values. The constricted viewpoint on the world that sees “old” as no longer useful and “different” as uncooperative at least, and burdensome at most. In truth, the only thing about it I find scary is the disregard for individuality and its intersection with the medical establishment.

I know a lot of old people (people in their 80’s and 90’s) who are interested, interesting, and as deep and wise and calm as an ocean, or as fun and quick and happy as the sun.

They’re not gloomy or used up. They’re all filled up. They’re large inside.

An Essay

By guest Gero-Punk Matthew Gannon

Imagine if you will a man. 

He is age 83 and has been living in a memory care facility for the last several months. Let’s call this man Roman. Roman is living with Alzheimer’s disease. It has reached the more severe end of the spectrum, to the point where Roman can no longer perform actions in sequential order, whether it is getting dressed, brushing his teeth or putting together the necessary steps of having a successful trip to the bathroom, as he is 100% incontinent of both bowel and bladder. At the same time, Roman is able to move about freely without the use of any type of walking device. Roman is a very classy guy and very polite, but he has lost the ability to clearly express himself. That is to say, he can no longer stream full sentences together, so instead he relies on short replies to what others say: “yes, no”, or a nod of the head one way or the other. There are times when he will smile at certain things but say nothing.

Roman’s family is very supportive and visits him often.

I am one of his caregivers.

One day while I was cleaning up the kitchen area after serving lunch, I found Roman standing at the sink, rolling his sleeves up. Before him was a large amount of dishes that needed attention and were waiting for me. I always have one side of the sink filled with hot soapy water, and of course I had a scrub brush and towels for drying. Roman started to dig into the washing, rinsing and stacking process. He was in his element and cranking out clean steaming dishes left and right. I joined him at his side and wiped them all clean to put them away. This process continued for at least twenty minutes and Roman didn’t miss a beat. In fact, at one point when washing cups he used a technique I was sure he had done countless times before for many years while performing the ever-so joyful act of dish washing. Roman took the cup in his hand, dipped it in the hot steaming soap water, and then filled the cup from the running water in the opposite sink. Once full, he covered the top of the cup with one hand, while placing his other hand underneath, and shook the water inside back and forth, then poured the water out, then refilled once more, repeating the shaking technique, rinsing once again and handing the clean cup over to me.

What did this experience teach me about Roman? As I stood witness to this man who just that morning needed all of my help to get himself out of his urine soaked bed, in and out of the shower, shaved and dressed, I understood that something was a driving force within him, and that this driving force came from both his mind and his body.

I have heard of muscle memory and I have heard of lucid moments in dementia, but Roman’s participation in the dish washing lasted nearly a half an hour and I realized he was doing something he knew how to do, the same way he had so many times before. This to me was a manifestation of consciousness; a consciousness that does not separate between the mind and the body, but instead allowed this person to do what would seem impossible given his supposed level of impairment. Yes, maybe it only lasts for a short time and then he is in need of assistance once again because he cannot connect the dots to the new task, but this was real and it happened.

I think Roman experienced what some artists refer to as “the mind in the hand,” some mysterious force which creates some type of an auto-pilot within one’s self.  It wasn’t Roman’s mind alone that was trying to get the task done, but rather his mind and his body connected to the time and the environment – to the meditation of dish washing.

Roman’s mind was dialed into his consciousness that lives in the body that shook those cups, and the mind that told him this has to be done and this is how.

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Bio: My name is Matt Gannon. I was raised on a peninsula of lake Erie, in the heartland of America. My family circle at that time was centered around my Nana and Papa who both passed away while I was serving four years of duty in the US Navy as a flight deck firefighter and salvageman on an aircraft carrier. I became a father at age 21, and I now have two boys, a step-son, and a daughter, who my wife and I keep at the center of our circle now.

I have been working in service to elders for over ten years in different capacities. I am a caregiver at my core, but I have served in different ways throughout the years. I currently hold the title of Community Resource Director for the Springs at Wilsonville—an assisted living and memory care community, and I am proud to be a part of a supportive cast there who live with bleeding hearts for our elders much like I do.

As a student for six years studying human science and gerontology at Marylhurst University, my already critical thinking instincts were sharpened and supported to see not only beyond the surface level of things, but to become available to what is happening in my day  before me as I carry on.

Dementia has been my central focus for the past decade, and I have no doubt the mysteries and work to be done for those living with dementia will remain my true north in elder care.

I am a son, brother, husband, father, uncle, godfather, friend, veteran, coach, believer, and generation X – alternative type of thinker who wants to know why? I walk through life with the edges of situations in the corner of my eye, and I will press forward and travel to the other side of edges at times if I think it will help people, even if there is risk involved; if I believe an unorthodox solution will help, I will venture “out of bounds” if necessary. I am a person who cares about the well-being of people who strive for goodness, and I am one who empathizes with anyone who doesn’t.

I allow myself to be aware of how cool it really is that I get to live within this beautiful and painful opera that is the mystery of life.

An essay by guest Gero-Punk

Jennifer Ortiz

I’m riding my (turquoise) Vespa through pastured valleys, over lonesome bridges – the ones paradoxically understood and unknown. On a single lane highway, mythical wind on my face, I Iean into tidy curves and clumsily just barely dodge peril along the wayside. Whoa! Straighten for uphill ascent at full tilt exhilaration!   I reach the paved summit and proceed to careen into a free-wheeling downhill glide.  I slow with my feet on the dusty gravel. There’s my friend. She’s waiting at the junction.

Roads draw us in and stretch out into mostly peculiar horizons. They are draped in spectacular blossoms of light. They are a challenge; a thrill. Other roads uproot us from our insular selves, plunging our minds into other passages. It is nothing short of miraculous that we allow our so-called ordinary lives to melt into other’s journeys. Together we bask in the strange warmth of unrelenting, godforsaken time.

I love travels with Melinda.  She gently places her stories in precious vessels and generously frees them like sacred feathers – all visceral and lush.  And bright.  I curiously accelerate through murky thresholds and the Vespa cruises into new terrain.  Squinting, I begin to imagine those outlines and figures in the distance. They become vivid roadside murals passing before my eyes. I remain still as time closes. I am pulled ahead without moving.

I conjure her words into my own colors and patterns. She leads me into her stories, and so I dream. Melinda is ten years old and near the National Mall where Dr. King spoke. It is 1963, three years before I was even here. She is with a friend and that friend’s mother in the outer reaches of Washington D.C. Her eyes witness kids her own age living in cardboard shacks. They have no shoes. Melinda’s heart sinks. She is changed and is perhaps no longer a child. I stand there, blinking, breathing with the scene. I see the children and her emotions rush with mine. Heart beating. The passage of time and history allows me to understand the simple irony of a civil rights leader talking about inequality, while just a few blocks away there live the most unequal. I lean into the turn.

We are in Seneca Falls, New York, where the first women’s rights convention was held in 1848. Melinda is on a solo journey as she seeks to learn about the women who did more than take a stand back then. She is preparing to write a play about nameless women who changed the world. The docents show her the grounds and narrate the events of that famous and infamous gathering. Melinda tells them more than they already know, about other women who were there. She teaches them about the ones imprisoned and tortured seventy years later for the same cause. Lucy Burns. Alice Paul. I know they are in awe of their keen visitor that day. She beams her story. I listen to loving silences as they fall between words. Faded history lessons and old photographs become real to me. I touch their faces.

Kickstand up, I turn into a curve and head back up to my road. The sun sets again.

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Jennifer M. Ortiz is a social observer and Progressive Era historian. She holds a Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies from Marylhurst University, and has worked as a writer for the past several years in the non-profit sector. Jennifer and her husband live in Portland, Oregon, with their three sons.