How we age. My mom, now vs. then.
This is not an homage to aging gracefully. I don’t think it’s that serious – and also that’s a topic for another post for another person maybe.
Speaking to my mom recently I asked her how old she was. In a true Nigerian woman fashion, she said “calculate it” without missing a beat, as if she didn’t know. Then I told her that honestly, in my head, she is younger now than she was 20+ years ago when we moved to the USA. Technically, she is 20+ years older of course.
But the image of her in my head from when we were in Nigeria is of a young woman. I remember her with a light air. Her life must have been difficult but I remember her being graceful, not free but secure, assured. The image of her in my head from when we moved to Austin, Texas, is of an old woman. A very old woman. A very scared woman. She was afraid all the time. She was closed off. She was probably lonely, filled with worry and most likely depressed. But in my head, she is tired, weary, hollow, anxious. She has no energy, she has no motivation. She did not engage. And so she aged in my head but remained a 35-year old woman to the world.
She agreed. Immigrating to any country is not easy. But immigrating to the USA is especially hard. People believe you should pull yourself up by your own bootstrap so there is little help to newcomers (depends on the state). The system is not friendly. 20+ years ago, all the systems were not newcomer friendly. If you don’t have someone who can guide you through some of the bureaucracy, you are effectively by yourself.
I remember seeing so little of my dad during those first few years. I remember my mom not laughing often. I remember going to the shops and needing to pick out specific food that WIC covered – the ones we could buy. I remember the crowded room we lived in, all six of us. I remember the crowded house with my aunt’s family. I remember that old old 8 seater car. The one that didn’t have a good heater so when it was cold and we had to go to church or out, we needed to wear multiple layers. But mostly, I remember my mom. I lived with her anxieties…in the way she didn’t know, wasn’t sure and couldn’t risk it. I remember all the restrictions and the resentments. I remember the Golden Corral lunches and take-aways. I remember when we graduated to Applebees then to Olive gardens.
It’s proven that we age more when we have more worries, more stress, or more troubles. I haven’t figured out how to have less worry, stress or troubles with so many things out of my control. But I think a good place to start is to acknowledge that it ages us. On a fundamental level, we change when we are overshadowed or crippled by the challenges life sends our way. Everyone can see it. We know it. Maybe just accepting it is a good place to start.