OLD TIMES : When the Years Have Been Unkind, It’s a Challenge to Age Gracefully
Certain folk occasionally surface during conversation, or they are remembered warmly at chilly moments, acquaintances embraced during one of life’s trepidations who, at a critical moment, made the going a lot less tough. Time passes, and good things said about them echo across the communal grapevine. One might expect to find a foundation stone laid in their honor, an unobtrusive plaque in some park or museum, a small street or branch library rechristened in their name, maybe a walk-of-fame accolade. At minimum, it’s assumed they’ve somehow earned a lucrative retirement along with a hefty chapter in the ledger of good souls. But to suddenly find them old, fragile, disillusioned, virtually abandoned, emotionally and/or financially needy, even if with a certain dignified stance, is altogther unsettling.
* “So it’s come to this--having to fight the old battles all over again.” The activist elder statesman and I are standing outside a Santa Monica bookstore, spontaneously chewing the gristle of current events. “I thought that when I got this old I’d be able to rest on my laurels.” He’s a self-assured, soft-spoken white man who, in the glory days of the civil rights movement, witnessed the emergence of Martin Luther King Jr., knew Langston Hughes. We take a head count: JFK, RFK, the thousands dead in Southeast Asia, the long, ugly death of a naive ‘60s idealism capped off by Abbie Hoffman’s suicide. “I keep asking myself,” he whispers, “how could we have been so wrong?”
* The quiet Malibu salon is held to honor the ancestor, an African American poet who was bused in from artistic self-exile in Europe to inform us younger acolytes of beatitudinal history, with a little tut-tut, “make it positive” on the side. None of his peers are present, there being only two, sad to say, and one of those gents long ago upped the ghost, while the other’s rooted elsewhere.
After a brief ritual of gourmet crackers, brie and white wine, the gathering unfolds. The sprightly graybeard, dapper in dress and hip in demeanor, assumes the muted spotlight and begins to blow. As a means of self-definition, as well as protection, he summons up, among a multitude of spirits, Monk, Miles and Mingus. Then, soaking in appreciative applause, he hustles microprinted missals, hastily assembled by a descendent of Gutenberg at x-times-the-cost American. We buy them politely, dutifully, if not effusively.
* The “Friends of” envelope is made of cheap white stock, my address printed legibly by hand in wispy blue ink. I rip it open, expecting to read an obituary, then am relieved to learn that an old acquaintance isn’t quite on his deathbed. He is, in fact, about to celebrate another birthday. More troubling and heartbreaking is that the announced celebration doubles as fund-raiser. I feel confused and embarrassed for the oldster. I had assumed life had provided him with substantial rewards, last I heard, anyway. This public plea for support, ongoing or onetime, contains a biographical sketch composed of illustrious quotes, a pledge sheet and a wrenching call to arms in the name of this pioneer of California’s gay and lesbian community.
* “The younger women at the office, they treat me like somebody’s aunt. I’ve paid my dues. When it came to feminism, I was on the front line, baby, but they can’t see that. I have to keep proving myself.” We met while she was still “on a roll.” Hard times have kept us apart, but recently we’ve made it a point to meet over dinner. Lack of recognition, loneliness, the constant pressure to justify her existence have worn her thin. Haunted eyes hold mine over sparkling water and Continental cuisine. She’s in her late 50s, Jewish, formerly of New York. She’s spent more than 15 years trying to adjust to Southern California. But ... “I don’t have any boyfriends here. Only friends who happen to be men. When I step out of a cab in Manhattan, I get noticed. I’m alive! I’m sexxxy! Men flirt with me. Here? They don’t even look anymore. L.A.’s not a town you can grow old gracefully in ...”