The Crones

"We're not going to be ignored, Dan."

I was in the Charlotte airport, delayed for three hours, sitting at a bar drinking a glass of iffy Cabernet. My left knee, recently replaced, was aching from hours of sitting and traveling and moving too little one day and too much the next. I noticed the white man in cargo shorts next to me had the same scar on his left knee, so I struck up a casual conversation.

“I see we have matching scars,” I said. “How long ago did you get your replacement?”

“Four years ago,” he said, shifting his eyes momentarily to his left where I sat, but not bothering to move his entire head. “I’m about to get the other one done, too. I’m too young for these, but I’ve been bone on bone for a long time.”

He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t ask me any questions, didn’t reciprocate any conversation. But he had seen me when I sat down, and he’d been happy enough to take the opportunity to tell me his story. If I had to guess, he was at least my age, probably older. Having lived in a retirement resort full of them, I’ve found that older, white men enjoy talking about themselves, but they are seldom interested in you in return.

Did this man’s proclamation that he was too young for a knee replacement indicate he thought I was old enough to have one? Who knows. But his hair was just as white as mine. His wrinkles, more prominent.

When it was time for another glass of wine, I couldn’t get the bartender’s attention. All the patrons around me had their drinks refilled, but I had to wave my hands in the air like I was landing a plane to get her attention.

I have heard that women become “invisible” after 50. And now—with my white hair and my ample backside—I’m living it. Take for example, the aforementioned older white men from my retirement community. One day on the pickleball court, one of them said to me, “We (meaning he and his old, white man friends) were looking at your Facebook pictures the other night, and we couldn’t believe how gorgeous you used to be.”

I stared at him blankly, my cheeks flushing red from the physical exertion of a pickleball game, the sting in the words he thought were a compliment, and the embarrassment of having the gall to exist in an older corporeal version of my younger, hotter self.

I mean, why do we as Americans think every good thing should be put out to pasture as it ages? That those things become less beautiful and interesting and worthy as they accumulate years? Why have we chosen to define our fleeting youth as the standard measure of beauty? And why is it worse for women? Men, as their hair turns white, are called silver foxes. Women just get old.

Does our planet feel this way as we use up all the natural resources she so graciously provided us? As we take her trees and her plants and her water for granted? As we drill, baby, drill to make rich men richer? Does Mother Earth feel like this mother of four often feels in the eyes of our society—as if my job here is done, my children birthed, my usefulness on this planet finished?

It’s tragic, really, how we fail to see the worth in the things that have wrinkles, like elephants whose tusks are valued more than their beautiful hearts. Like trees whose once-smooth trunks have developed the wrinkles of age and wisdom and strength.

The stately, aged trees withstand the storms far better than the saplings, after all.

Do we ignore what’s happening with our parks and our libraries and our research grants because they’ve always been around? Because they’re passé? Because we’ve stopped noticing the beauty and wisdom that is inherent in their existence, in their mission, in their contributions? Because we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone?

And what about our trans community? Are we willing to just look the other way? To ignore the fact that they’re being dehumanized, demeaned, and purposefully eliminated? Do the ones leading this charge understand that they’ve always existed? That they’ll exist forever?

That they are all of us?

We need to open our eyes, friends. We need to speak up. We need to speak out. We need to talk to each other. To see each other. We need to recognize and celebrate each other’s worth. (Unless you’re a MAGA zealot or a billionaire asshole or a Nazi or a grumpy old self-centered dude with a knee replacement, then you can just fuck right off.)

But for the rest of us, this country, this planet, our humanity—it’s all worth saving. Don’t you think?

And I believe the crones, in all their wisdom and glory, will lead the way. We might have the power of invisibility, but we won’t be using it this time around.