OLD WOMEN DON'T HAVE TO BE QUIET

Old women don’t have to be quiet, and already at four years old I was looking forward to being old enough to have the right to speak my mind loud and clear, with or without the use of spoken words. 

It was obvious to me that with age came the privilege of speaking up, being listened to and being taken seriously. 

I had learned by watching my older brothers that children were to be seen and not heard.  I knew beyond any doubt that I would not be able to get away with talking back, having a temper tantrum, or even slightly disagreeing with any adult, especially my parents.  Even a sideways glance with rolling eyes would have gotten me into trouble.  When it came to self-expression, being a child in my family sucked.

It didn’t take me long for me to recognize from observing the women in my neighborhood just who was able to speak their minds without being challenged.  It was old women.  They could freely express themselves loud and clear by using their words, or they could speak volumes with a single look that said it all. 

With one glance Mrs. Bell next door was able to get Mr. Bell to stop talking mid-sentence.  But the real powerhouse of silent communication on the block was Mrs. McLaughlin, two doors down.  She lived alone, so I didn’t get to observe her interaction with a husband, but it seemed to me that she and I had entire conversations with just our eyes.  The only words she spoke were, “Do you want a cookie?”  to which I nodded yes. 

As I sat in her living room munching on my cookie and silently studying Mrs. McLaughlin’s face, she in turn silently studied my face.  I was in awe of her strong eyes, her long grey hair pulled back into a bun, and most of all, the fascinating wrinkles that seemed to run every which way on her face.  I never could figure out where they started and where they ended.

I can’t imagine what she saw in my face, but whatever it was, it made her smile which made me feel seen and heard. 

It seemed to me she had to have been the oldest person on earth.  Yet, what I saw in her face more than anything else was calm, peaceful contentment with herself and her life.  Of course, I was too young to put my impression of Mrs. McLaughlin into those words, but that description of her is what comes to my mind now as I replay my memory of her.   

I remember thinking I wanted to be just like Mrs. McLaughlin, and that I wasn’t too young to start practicing.  Best of all, I knew I wouldn’t get into trouble using this type of silent powerful communication.

I was so good at being silent that my mother began expressing worry that I was becoming a terribly shy little girl.   But then one day when we were downtown, without saying a word I walked up to a little boy on the street corner and took a lick off his ice cream cone.  Mother never worried about my being shy after that. 

As I was growing up, I found ways to get what I wanted through cute little girl manipulation and coyness instead of asking for things directly.  But there was no real power in that.  I still could not express who I was and have it taken seriously. 

As I began developing my own sense of self during adolescence, I did, on occasion, speak my mind in school, but even then, it felt as if my outspokenness bordered on disrespect of my elders.  I remember raising my hand and asking Mr. Ruckman, my 6^th grade teacher, how we were supposed to learn not to interrupt him, (something he had just admonished another student for doing) when he kept interrupting us.  I was so ashamed of myself for being that disrespectful that I stayed quiet again for a long time afterwards. 

Then I finally made it to the glory days of adulthood, achieving, at last, the right to be a bit bolder in expressing myself through my actions. I still remember the look on my soon-to-be-husband’s face when, after he had asked several times if I didn’t think I should get up and go do the dishes, I calmly walked over to the kitchen, carefully moved the breakable dishes aside, and with one arm swept the remaining dishes off the countertop.  They all went crashing onto the floor.  I walked back over, sat down beside him on the sofa, and calmly said, “The dishes are done.”  

He was silent for a few seconds before resuming our conversation as if nothing had happened.  Amazingly enough, a few months later, he still married me. 

The sad thing is, after we were married, I reverted to the bad old days of being seen and not heard.  In my family, and in the time and place where I grew up, there wasn’t much difference between being a good child and a good wife.  Thankfully, that wasn’t true everywhere, for there had been many wives who have been a powerhouse of support for their husbands’ success, and many more who have been highly successful themselves. 

I can’t help but wonder if my husband didn’t feel I had pulled a bait-and-switch on him.  I think he liked the woman who calmly sent the dinner dishes crashing to the floor.  Would he have stayed in the marriage longer if his partner had been that woman?  Who knows, and that’s a moot point anyway.  As for now, I’m enjoying being single.  But should I ever decide I want to get married again, say in my 90s, I’ll keep that in mind.

For most of my life I’ve looked forward to getting older.  As my friends panicked at turning 30, then nearly had heart attacks when they turned 60, I cheered the passage of time.  That meant I was getting closer to when I could become more like Mrs. McLaughlin. 

If I had known about the right of passage she must have gone through before she reached what seemed to be her age of self-contentment, I’m not so sure I would have gleefully applauded my passing birthdays. 

I didn’t know about the loss of teeth, the thinning and receding hair line (yes women have that too), the figure that goes from hourglass to apple, the sags and rolls and bulges.  There are aches and pains and pulled muscles that come when you forget you’re 75, not 25.  Knowing firsthand what Mrs. McLaughlin probably went through before I knew her makes me admire her even more.

Now here I am.  I have finally reached that glorious age where I feel free to speak my mind freely and confidently.  I can use an abundance of words or a single, silent glance.  It’s still often met with disapproval, but at my age I really don’t care. 

I express my thoughts.  I don’t often argue.  I go with the flow, (more or less) and I simply do what I want.  I do believe I’ve finally found the secret to Mrs. McLaughlin’s calm, peaceful contentment.

Thank you, Mrs. McLaughlin for being such a powerful role model and of course, for the best cookies in the neighborhood.  

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