My department chair,
Christine, called me “Kid” when I was teaching in my first school. I was 22
years old. Most of my colleagues had lived at least twice as long as I had. I
had to convince the lunchroom ladies every day that I could have two milks, a privilege
not available to students but reserved for faculty. (My students in line with
me would taunt, “Nah! She’s not a teacher!”)
In class, I would joke about
how old I was, and the students would laugh with me. When I requested papers
from my seniors one day and my unusually hairy student Ben didn’t have his, he
said to me, “I’ve dated girls older than you.” (My retort: “I don’t date boys
your age. Bring your paper tomorrow. It will be late, and if you don’t have it,
I’ll need to call your parents.)
When Ann and I got together
eighteen years ago, she was twenty years my senior. (She still is.)
This year, I’ve started
attending “Silver Sneakers,” an exercise class for seniors and me, all of whom need to
sit in a chair to keep our balance while we exercise. Here, I'm still "the kid."
I have thought of myself
permanently as the “kid,” but apparently time doesn’t work that way.
About a decade ago, I made a
joke about how old I was in one of the high school classes I was teaching.
Nobody laughed. Awkward.
Last week, I met with a group
of young adults from our church to begin a book group around a text about race
and spirituality. The group had been advertised as open to people between 18
and 41 years of age, but then they opened it up and said I could come even
though I’m seven years too old.
My friend Elizabeth missed
the cut-off, too, and they also let her join.
As I sat on Annie’s couch in
her and her husband Robbie’s hip artist’s loft, I ate my soup, and I felt older
than those around me. I had to work to balance my soup in my lap and not to shake when I
moved the spoon to my mouth. The others balanced and spooned easily, laughing
familiarly with one another.
As we introduced ourselves, I
felt older again. How had each of us found our little progressive church? I realized that Ann and I found the church while these nice people were in elementary school.
The
others talked about experiences they’d had in their twenties, and the way those
experiences led them through the church door:
Annie had returned from a
year in El Salvador and was church shopping. When she saw the Salvadoran cross
and the Romero poster, she decided she’d stay. (Once, during a meeting that Ann was facilitating about our relationship with a small town in El Salvador, Annie turned to me and said, "Your partner rocks." High praise, indeed.)
Kara found the church when she was late for her
parents’ church and was walking in her parents’ neighborhood. She came in
and decided to stay.
Her husband Brandon visited and Jim, the minister at the
time, invited him to go jet-skiing, so Brandon stayed, too. (Ahem, Jim…You
never invited me to go jet-skiing. I thought we were buds.)
The group’s other Southerner,
Hadley, heard the multi-racial Total Experience Gospel Choir from the street,
and came to see what was going on. She cried as she witnessed the scene of
people of many races singing together (and was surprised the next week when our
less diverse choir sang instead of our visitors.)
A younger Mary introduced herself as "the other Mary." Because our church has so many Marys and Marie's, however, we started numbering ourselves for our Salvadoran friends who had difficulty keeping us separate in our emails.
I told the younger Mary, "I'm Mary #3," so she said, "I'll be Mary #4, then."
She could not be Mary #4. Number four is Mary Fry, who thinks she's #1 but is really #4. There's also already a #5 and a #11, but the numbers in between # 5 and #11 are available. Younger Mary will be #6.
I felt more a part of the
group and less aware of my age as we began reviewing the books.
As the
books were introduced, Hadley said, “I love books!” Choosing one, she massaged
the book’s cover and said, “This book has a friendly cover.”
“Ah, a
young adult soul mate!” I thought. “There are geeks here, too!”
A deep
analysis of the texts continued.
Elizabeth
shared, “This is my favorite book. I’m not sure why. She [the author photo]
looks happy.”
Chris,
another soul mate, I suspect, said, “I like the black and white ones. They look
academic.”
I think it
was Kara who shared her more sensitive side: “This is the one that made me have
feelings.”
We finally
chose a book that might appeal to our intellectual, emotional and tactile
selves: Becoming an Anti-racist Church,
and set our agenda for the next meeting: a Friday.
I was
impressed that these young adults would choose to attend a book group on a
Friday night: definitely geek soul mates.
Since we’re
going to meet on Fridays, my partner Ann can join us. I may not be the kid
anymore, but I won’t be the elder, either. That role will fall to Ann.
I’ll be the
middler. I’m cool with that. (Or maybe I should say hip…or filthy…or even
better, hella-filthy.)
Then again,
since this is a church group, and I’m a responsible middler, I’ll say
hecka-filthy.
I’m no old
dog. Though I can’t run with the pups, I look forward to learning with them and
to connecting with this generation.
As the Star
Wars’ wrinkled green guy said to Count Dooku and thus to me: “Much you still
have to learn, my old padawan. This is just the beginning.”
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