The Gero-Punk Project

An Essay by Guest Gero-Punk

Amber Gosnell

Tonight after our usual bedtime ritual, my 6 year-old son came out and told me he couldn’t sleep.  He was trying all the tricks we have devised over the last 6 almost 7 years: taking deep breaths, relaxing his muscles but nothing was working.  I walked him back to bed telling him that eventually sleep would come, though perhaps having his blanket and alligator would help.  I picked up his blanket from the floor and pawed through the pile of stuffed animals looking for “Croccy.”  Croccy is a sweet, stuffed alligator we adopted from the zoo.  (At the age of 6, crocodiles and alligators are pretty much the same.)  I was on the floor looking under the bed for Croccy when Nate suddenly rolled over, pulled the covers over his head and said in a very small voice: “I keep thinking about dying-it scares me”.

In the midst of straightening up and announcing Croccy was not there, I froze in place – this would not go away with deep breaths and muscle relaxation.  My poor little man.  He’s too young to think about this! He should be in dreamland fighting Decepticons and building the world’s largest roller coaster which would take him all the way to Hawaii (his dream vacation destination)!

Realizing I was holding my breath and beginning to feel the effects of it, I slowly let it out as I got to my feet; my mind racing, frantically searching for something to say, the RIGHT thing to say.  I have always found it amusing that in the most crucial moments I will notice and focus on some of the most insignificant details.  I think that must be a common trick of the mind. Sort of like when the body goes into shock it allows you to function without having to feel the full extent of your physical injuries. I stood there, scrambling for pearls of motherly wisdom like the kind I read in books or see in movies,  something that would erase the fear but also not make him feel like I was making his very real fears seem insignificant or a thing to be laughed at. At the same time, however, I was struggling to control spasms of fear that had struck me with his words; the same spasms I experience each and every time I think about death or dying.   What on earth do I say to calm my 6 year old little boy’s fear of dying when I have not learned how to calm my 32 year old self’s same fears? Not to mention how horribly disconcerting it was to have my own fears thrown back at me in such a spectacular fashion. I have deliberately kept my fears about dying to myself so as not to warp his impressionable, and may I add, very sharp mind.

So what do I do? I wonder idly where else Croccy could be hiding.  Perhaps he knew this conversation was coming and preferred to be elsewhere.  Part of me wanted to be there with Croccy.  Where was that blasted alligator when I needed him?! The other part of me, the loving and responsible mother who refuses to be a coward, gently tucked the covers under my son’s chin, laid down beside him and wrapped him up in a bear hug.  “Sometimes”, I said, “I have thoughts like that too. What I try to do is take a deep breath and remind myself I am here now. I am alive. I am healthy.”   He thought for a second then said “No I don’t mean that. I mean when I get old…what will it be like? Will it hurt to die?”  Ugh…Another wrench to the heart.  “Oh.” I say. “You know, I don’t think it will.”  “Really?” he asks. “What do you think it will be like?”  “Well,” I say, “I think it will be like falling asleep.”  Silence as he ponders this. Then, in a near wail, “But what will happen after?!” What do I say to that?? I’m still working out my own spiritual beliefs while also puzzling out how to instill spirituality in my child without imposing a set of beliefs on him.  Good grief, I’d rather be having the sex talk with him than the one I’m currently having. “Some religions,” I tell him, “believe our souls are reborn into new bodies.  Others believe we go directly to heaven and are reunited with our family members who have already died.” 

Some time passed with me doing my best to explain and contextualize the “Soul” to him in such a way that I did not over-simplify it or overwhelm him.  Once he had it clear in his own mind though, magic began to happen.  No longer speaking in a tiny, frightened voice his voice became stronger and more confident as he began to put things together for himself, fitting his idea of the soul into the possibilities of reincarnation or heaven.  If we had not been lying down I imagine he would have been pacing back and forth as he talked, working things out.  It’s always so cool and fascinating to me when I see him learning something new, watching him process in his own way and start to make those connections that lead to a deeper understanding of whatever it is he’s learning about. Being able to watch the creation of knowledge in a person is an amazing experience.  Teachers – I get it now. 

After several starts, stops, backtracking, and starting again he had the puzzle solved.  “OK.  So your soul is reborn into a new body…it’s like your soul is taking control of this new body.”  “Yeeesss,” I said hesitantly “only you won’t know that’s what you’re doing.” He laughs. “Well, yeah of course.” Pause.  “So if we are the same soul in a new body will the six year old self in my next life like basketball too?”  I barely suppress a laugh as I say “Well maybe not basketball specifically, but perhaps sports in general.”  “Yeah,” he says with a definitive nod, “I will always like sports.”  Another pause. “So we’re reborn into a new body but keep our personalities, but we don’t remember any of our past lives…but it’s not the end right?  Well I hope those religions are right because I want to keep being reborn.  Ohhhhh Mommy, I feel SO much better now. I can totally sleep now.”  Well I’m glad one of us will at least. We go through the goodnight ritual again and as I open the door to leave his room he says “I hope you’re my mommy in my next life too.”  Determined to make it out of this conversation without crying I begin to babble “Oh Naters I hope I’m your Mommy in your next life too. And I hope you’re my son.”  Pause.  “Umm, if you are my Mommy how would I NOT be your son?” Ah, humility.  Nothing chases away tears like being schooled by your child (at least for me). 

On solid-ish footing once again I sat down feeling compelled to write about this experience.  One sentence in and he comes out of his room once again. “Remember you said I could sleep in yours & Daddy’s bed until you went to bed?”  I remember but that was when he was scared and wanting the safety and comfort of a familiar elsewhere.  “Nope,” I say. He says, “Can I still? Oh. And can you find Croccy for me?” I answer, “Yes, and hopefully.”  Turning on the light this time I begin yet another search for the wayward Croccy.  Finally, I decide to give under the bed one last check and wouldn’t you know it? That bloody reptile was an inch away from where I had been searching for it previously!  

I wonder how differently, if at all, the conversation would have gone had I found Croccy earlier?  Did he hide on purpose? Are we in a real life Toy Story where our stuffed animals know what is needed better than we do? If Croccy had been found first would I have forced myself to face the topic I try daily to forget? With Croccy I could have soothed my son’s fears while distracting him with his beloved stuffed animal. 

I would like to think I would have chosen the non-cowardly way regardless, but apparently Croccy was leaving nothing to chance.

My friend and I were talking about love and loss, writing blocks and flows, the psycho-therapeutic process (specifically what frustrates us about it), emotions and embodiment and various other things. This was our collaborative preamble in advance of getting to the topic that was the purpose of our meeting yesterday afternoon.  At some point during our pre-ambling a book appeared from her bag, Glass, irony & god, by classicist and poet Anne Carson. My friend asked me if I had read it. I hadn’t. She recommended I check out the first piece, “The Glass Essay,” a strange long-form poem which she felt I would resonate to because of its bold approach to human complexity. It turns out that the poem/essay is about relationships, relationships between daughters and mothers, between lovers, between the past and the present, between time and place and space, between the reader and what is read.

The poem is epic, but not so long that it couldn’t be read in one sitting,  which is usually my approach to reading poetry, short stories and essays – I like to immerse myself in them, read from beginning to end without interruption except perhaps to make a cup of tea, as you can continue to read while you do that. (Though you should see the nasty burn I acquired on my right wrist from reaching my arm across the stream coming out of the boiling kettle in order to grab my favorite green mug. You know you aren’t as situated in present awareness as you need to be when you don’t know that you’ve burned yourself until someone – let’s say your daughter — asks you – let’s say on the drive to school — what happened to your wrist and you realize suddenly that you have a big angry blister, and once you actually acknowledge the blister’s existence you realize that it hurts, and not just a little. Then, like a forensic scientist, you have to search your memory for evidence of the incident leading to the injury. Oh! The steam coming out of the tea kettle! You remember you were reaching for your favorite mug while reading an essay. Mystery solved.).

So, I just finished the “The Glass Essay.” It took me a total of seven hours, give or take, from start to finish. In between starting and finishing reading Carson’s essay I read something else, meditated, showered, ate a small meal, washed dishes, vacuumed and swept the floors, folded clothes, did some online teaching, ran to the market, took a nap, ate another small meal, worked on updating my mommy’s resume, and engaged in various conversations via texting, email, Facebook, and  phone.

It took me seven hours to read Carson’s poem because I could only stay immersed for so long without beginning to cry or rant about love and loss.  I could only sustain my attention on her carefully wrought words for so long without feeling like my heart was going to burn a hole through my chest.  At first I felt bad that I couldn’t abide with the poem for very long, but I figured that Carson would rather I read her poem how ever long it took me rather than not read it at all (that’s how I imagine I’d feel, if I were her, and if she were me), so I read it in the manner I was able to, and despite the arduous emotional journey it took me on, I’m glad I read it, I’m glad my friend suggested to me that I read it. I found it to be incredibly inspiring and I feel less isolated in my love and loss than I was before I read it. I look forward to reading Carson’s poem again in one fell swoop now that I know what’s in store for me (but only to some extent, because even when I re-read a text with which I have an intimate relationship I still discover new things about it and myself.).

I wish I could write such a thing, a poem called an essay that is at once deeply personal and philosophical, which takes on big perennial ideas and the immediate messiness of human experience.  I wish I could thank Carson for helping me suss some stuff.  Oh! And as I write this it occurs to me that my friend may have had at least one ulterior motive in suggesting I read the poem! So, instead I’ll thank her—Thank you, friend. 

Before my time with my friend yesterday afternoon I spent the morning with my mommy.  She’s had to leave a job about which she cares a great deal (and fought to keep when the agency she previously worked for closed abruptly) because her older client, who is increasingly unable to control his behaviors due to a degenerative disease, couldn’t keep his hands off her body. And because bathing, cleaning up after, and caring for him, and being at his wife’s beck-and-call, was completely exhausting for her.

My mommy is an elder taking care of even older elders and as much as she loves being a caregiver, bringing happiness and comfort to others, the costs are exceeding the benefits. But my mommy has no choice but to work part-time for pay in order to be able to make her rent and have a semblance of comfort in her “later years.”  So we spent the morning together strategizing and problem solving and catching up with each other.

Our first task was to take a field trip to the downtown Portland Social Security office.  My mommy didn’t realize until I mentioned it to her that she qualifies for spousal benefits given that she was married to my father for twenty-five years, with the proviso that 50% of his benefit is more than the benefit she receives based on her own employment history. We discovered that in fact her current monthly benefit exceeds 50% of my father’s monthly benefit. Given how small my mommy’s monthly benefit is, the news that my father receives so little that 50% of it would be less than what my mother receives in full was a bit sobering, but it makes sense, given his employment history. Bottom-line: No additional resources to be found courtesy of federal entitlement programs. (Sometimes it pays to have a gerontologist in the family. Sometimes it does not.)

To discover this news my mommy had to supply certain information to the Social Security personnel – my father’s name, social security number, birth date, and place of birth. She didn’t have his social security number.  As she gave his birth date, I realized about a beat before she turned to me to tell me that today, March 16^th, is his sixty-eighth birthday. My father and I are what in common parlance is referred to as “estranged.” We haven’t seen each other in over twenty years (I am not sure of the exact number, but it hasn’t been since I was in my early twenties, before my mother divorced my father). We haven’t spoken for three years, and he’s never met my daughter Isobel. 

After our trip to the Social Security office, my mommy and I brainstormed for awhile about other kinds of work she might like to do. My favorite of her ideas was “Running fast with little kids.” We did some searches on the Web—Portland Parks and Recreation, a couple of job search sites.  We also created a Facebook posting and put it on each of our profiles, asking our friend to keep their eyes and ears open for opportunities for my mommy. We’ve already received some fantastic ideas! 

After we attended to our tasks my mommy wanted to walk home from my house to her apartment, so Happy and I ambled with her as far as the edge of the park. While we walked we fantasized about how cool it would be if  we were a non-profit and everyone we knew could contribute $20 per month (or at whatever level worked for their budget) to support my mommy in working as my personal assistant. The only problem is that we aren’t a real non-profit, so there wouldn’t be a tax benefit to our generous donors. Nonetheless, this little fantasy has particular resonance given that my mentor, who has expertise in consulting about fundraising with non-profit organizations, has referred to me affectionately and in jest as “a small non-profit.” You know, I’m only five foot two inches tall…

Today is my father’s birthday. And I’m working on my mommy’s resume to help her in her job search. And I’m thinking about love and loss.

I’ll end with some of Anne Carson’s “subtle and surprising” words:

What is prior?

What is love?

My questions were not original.

Nor did I answer them.

Mornings when I meditated

I was presented with a nude glimpse of my lone soul,

not the complex mysteries of love and hate.

A human being can change in significant ways in a relatively short period of time. Often change isn’t chosen, it just happens as we travel through the life course.  Sometimes the change is perceived to be “positive,” and sometimes not.  I wonder: what makes a change “positive,” and what makes it not?

For example, when one of my students brought her little boy with her to an advising appointment a few weeks ago, I found the changes in him since the last time I saw him to be astounding! When I had seen him a few months ago he was still being carried around by his parents, he still looked like a “baby.” But when I saw him recently, he was locomoting around my office, he was commanding his mommy’s attention with proto-words and gestures, and he was looking me in the eye and holding my gaze. In other words, he was no longer a baby, he was a little boy!  Let me tell you in case you don’t know–There’s a big difference between being an eight-month-old who is still crawling and being a one-year-old who is tottering and experimenting with first words. That’s a heck of a lot of growth in just four months, don’t you think?

Here’s another example.  Last week, on Wednesday, I resumed my gero-punk collaborative inquiry sessions at the Continuing Care Retirement Community that’s contiguous to my university.  I haven’t been able to hold sessions for the past year, but before my temporary hiatus I was hanging out 90 minutes at a time, twice a month.  What is a “gero-punk collaborative inquiry session”?  Well, it happens something like this: I try to show up early, greet my old friends (both old and new old friends) as they arrive, engage in informal chitting-and-chatting, and then when I’m pretty certain everybody who is going to join us has, I read an essay (usually one that I or another gero-punk has written, though not always) and then we talk about whatever comes to our minds in response to the themes explored in the essay. We close the session by brainstorming what participants might like me to ponder, write about, and read the next time we meet (or, sometimes, what they would like to ponder, write about, and read the next time we meet).

Any way, enough exposition, let’s get back to what happened last week

So, I showed up early. I was excited for my kick-off inquiry session after being on hiatus for over a year. One of my old old friends – a friend whom I hadn’t seen for six months — was already in the room when I walked in. This is a mini-aside, but when I was holding sessions regularly I had on average six to ten participants. But I’m cool with only one person showing up—it makes sense, given that there’s so much going on at the CCRC and I’ve not been around much lately, so I have to vie for attention and work myself back into folks’ routines. Truth be told, I’m happy no matter who shows up, as long as I have at least one person with whom I can interact.

Any way, as I said, one of my friends showed up at my inquiry session last week.  I was thrilled she was joining me and I was curious about how she was doing. The last time I had seen her was this past summer – We saw one another in July and then again in August at the yearly formal dinner the CCRC holds. I mentioned my friend in an essay written in August, 2012 and inspired by the dinner, The spirit of ’45”:

I first spotted a woman whom I’ve interacted with many times over the past several years  and with whom just a few weeks ago I had ambled slowly hand-and-hand all over the Marylhurst University and Mary’s Woods campuses, chatting about our lives, past and present. Tonight when I walked up to her and greeted her she looked at me without even a flicker of recognition. At first I thought it was because I was wearing my hat and thus I appeared unfamiliar, but then I remembered that I had been wearing my hat when we last spent time together. I sat down next to her and began asking her questions about how she was and what she was up to this summer, but she couldn’t converse with me. She smiled almost apologetically in response to my questions and after a time I wished her a lovely evening and continued my rounds, feeling mildly shocked by the changes in her that had taken place in just a few short weeks.

When I greeted her last week at the inquiry session she didn’t recognize me.  I (re)introduced myself and mentioned that we’d taken a walk together a few months ago.  I also let her know I’d thought a lot about the stories she’d shared with me about the world traveling she and her late husband had enjoyed together over many decades. My mention of her travels jogged her memory and she began talking about the safari they went on in South Africa, and about how saddened she was by the shanty towns on the outskirts of Johannesburg.  Then she asked me again who I was and why I was there. I told her I had come over from the university to visit and perhaps read something I had written in order to get some feedback. So she asked me to read what I’d prepared and I asked her what her preference was—a story about my mommy or a story about my daughter. She chose the story about my mommy because, as she said, “Everyone can relate to a story about a mother.” So, I read Gero-punk Tribute: Happy Birthday Mommy! 

I read somewhat slowly and carefully because my friend has some hearing impairment. I stopped reading a couple of times and asked if she had any questions. When I was finished with the reading, we sat in silence for perhaps a minute or two.  Then she began to reminisce about her grandfather, an Englishman who performed with the London Philharmonic before immigrating to the U.S. and establishing a theatre in a small town in Washington State. She described him as a generous, wonderful man (When I asked about her grandmother, my friend described her as not as wonderful as her grandfather and “easily bothered”.). Sadly, her grandfather’s theatre eventually burned down to the ground and he lost everything except for his “wonderful, positive attitude.”  Then my friend began to reminisce again about the safari, and other trips she and her husband went on many decades ago, and how grateful she was to have shared so many adventures with her husband, who was a wonderful man.  I asked her questions about other places she had visited (I remembered from previous conversations that they had been to Japan and China and Europe.). She wasn’t sure, but she thought that they might have been to Japan and China, and Europe for sure. I asked her about her sons, and she told me I asked an awful lot of questions! I let her know that if she wanted to ask me any questions, I’d be more than happy to answer.  But she reminisced some more about her husband and their life together, and she again told me that she was grateful for her life, completely grateful.

I did my best to be sensitive to my friend’s energy and attention-span, to be as present as I could be and continue with our conversation for as long as she seemed interested in doing so. As we approached the end of the hour I let her know that I should probably begin to get ready to say goodbye as I needed to pick up my daughter from school. My friend asked about my daughter – she said she didn’t know I had a daughter (though we’d talked about Isobel before).  Picking up on my friend’s reoccurring expression of gratitude for her life experiences, I told her I was grateful to her for sharing time with me and that I had enjoyed hearing her stories and getting to know her better.  She told me it was nice to meet me and she hoped to see me again soon.

There is poignancy in the rapid changes being experienced by my student’s little son and there is poignancy in the rapid changes being experienced by my old friend living at the CCRC.  When I interact with my student’s little son my dominant feeling is excitement about all that he is learning second-by-second, about the amazing adventure he is on and all that he’s discovering and will discover.  When I interact with my old friend my dominant feeling is curiosity about her real-time experience of time-traveling between the past, the present and the future, but my curiosity is tinged with sadness. But why, why do I feel sadness in response to the changes my old friend is experiencing but not in response to the changes my student’s toddler is experiencing? Is it perhaps because I imagine my student’s son’s changes are governed by “development” and are “normal,” and, thus, “positive,” but my old friend’s changes are harder to pin down, they are “not-positive” because they seem to be governed by some other force, not development, probably not aging per se, but some irreversible and irresistible force related to living for a long time in a body on this planet?

He’s new, she’s not, but they are both close to their times of living in the stars.

Our travels through the life course involve a balance between gains and losses; development and aging are inexorably intertwined, commencing at birth when we become terrestrial and ending when we return to the stars. 

And listen closely when I tell you this important secret: development isn’t just about gains, and aging isn’t just about losses.

And life in a body is glorious and dangerous and contingent on time/place/space.  We get out of this adventure neither unscathed nor alive. But whatever happens, the journey can be an exciting adventure for which we feel grateful, completely grateful.