What’s Age Got to Do with It?
by Liz Whiteacre
Sometimes, I forget I’m aging. I’ve spent the last nineteen years on college campuses,
surrounded by perpetual youth. That’s what’s done it: a hundred young faces every term, then a
new batch, then another. Each class is distinct. I get to know these people very well through their
writing for a few months, but then they move on, grow, age (parts I don’t get to witness), and
they eventually send me their siblings, then their children. The campus’ kinetic energy of
discovery buoys me. I learn something new from composition and creative writing pieces every
day. There’s nothing stagnant, nothing too repetitive. Though some days my mind feels dull, I
can usually write that off to a cold, lack of sleep, worry about fitting all my tasks into a day.
When I wash my face and look hard in the mirror, I can see new lines, scars, freckles, maybe a
white eyebrow hair (I’m blonde, so I can choose ignore it…sun bleached it is, if I’m in the
mood). My hands look like my mother’s did when I was a child. I respect the ache in my lower
back when I squat by a desk to offer guidance to a writer. But my mind, it’s easily distracted, so I
might not pay attention to how old I am until I get an invitation to a reunion or notice my
daughter’s cheek now touches my belly when she hugs me. I stopped paying attention at thirty, I
think, when my daughter was born. Distracted by both the learning of parenthood and
professorship, it’s easy to ignore the aging bit. My collective years’ experience isn’t tracked by
birthdays anymore like it was when I was a kid; instead landmarks or events mark it. Oh, that
was before or after the accident, or about the time when my daughter lost her first tooth, or the
time the ball bearing went in the car’s back wheel, or that trip to Belize. It’s never, oh, when I
was thirty-three such and such happened. The calendar’s good for keeping me early to
appointments, not for marking things significant to me.
I celebrate my birthday now, I think, because my daughter so loves balloons and icing (the
pageantry of it) and my husband loves that I’m (still) here. I’ve begun to wonder when “you’re
as old as you feel” was first said and why, as folks barrel towards ninety, it echoes—a mantra to
keep us focused on what’s in front of us, not how close we’ve crept towards death? And, when
we get to mid-life, does it really matter what our number of years is? Does age determine our
ability to spot significant things to write about? I’ve read lots of amazingly wise stories written
by young people. I’m stumped. So, I stop paying attention. I’ve got things to do.
I treasure my profession. I get to work with writers on and off campus of all ages who are trying
to figure out the best way to communicate something significant in life they’ve witnessed and
understood. Sure, minutes tick and our time on task is limited to our work periods, but during
these deliberate, focused moments where we talk about craft and product and dissemination, time
seems to be shaped less linearly. It’s a precious thing to point to something that’s happened in
our lives and say, I think that’s significant, and I think this is why. It’s even more precious to be
able to take that moment and shape it and share it with others in such a way that they understand
the significance too. I have no doubt I’ll soon be curious about recording the stories of that old
lady in the mirror, but I’m pretty sure, my mind will still be oblivious to how old that face
appears when it walks away from the mirror. It will be focused on the next story, the right here
and now, ignoring the clock, trying to capture something important to share with you.