Psst…Ask Me How Old I Am
Don’t worry, because I don’t mind
I’m 72 years old and have never been embarrassed or reluctant to reveal my age. I can’t recall refusing to disclose my birth year or being tempted to prune a few decades off the vine of age if asked. Not that anyone ever asks. Asking someone’s age is on the list of things that polite people just don’t do.
These days, when I look in the mirror, I see an aging Chicana whose piloncillo color has some faint texture that demonstrates my years, but no Grand Canyon creases have etched themselves onto my face. Not that I care about that. I am scanning for signs of melanoma, not wrinkles.
I know that this is unusual. I’ve never worried about age and its limitations. I fully understand that we live in a society where aging is not valued as an important aspect of life’s journey, especially when it comes to brown women. So why am I different?
It’s not that I come from a family where my elders talked freely about their ages. In fact, there was a rule among the women that talking about one’s age was not done. This was an imperative strictly upheld by my mamá and her sisters. With one exception. Tía Cynthia broke that rule and made no attempt to hide her age. She was proud to be the oldest of the sisters and, in fact, used her age to uphold her status as the head sibling.
