Too old?

Louder, please

July 7, 2024

Joe Biden is a few years older than the standard issue boomer, but for many of us on the leading edge of that demographic (yes, that means me), the debate on whether he’s fit to run feels personal.  What’s “fit”? Is running the same as governing?

So as I have walked Greenberg for the last week or so, that is, post-debate, what’s been on my mind is politics.  Sort of.

What’s been on my mind – as always, I must admit – is me, my age, comparing and contrasting.  And I think that’s true for many baby-boomers.  As has been said, the whole scenario has unfolded like a Shakespearean tragedy.   For the moment  Biden is the criticized, maligned and stumbling king (the victim), at the same as he is the hubris-filled, egotistical and stubborn king (the villain).

With five months or a few weeks stretching ahead to its conclusion, this play is of particular fascination (more than that, an obsession), to those of us who have left professional life and those of us wondering whether it is time to retire.   That means just about  everyone, say, over the age of 65. Card-carrying members of Gen X, Millennials and Gen Z just don’t get it yet. 

My husband (still working) and I (merrily chomping on the pasture grass) sat in front of the TV and took in every moment of the debate as closely as though we’d been allowed to witness surgery on a beloved relative.  I was stunned to learn that neither of our sons, both of whom are middle-aged and generally up on political news, bothered to watch.  Neither Trump nor Biden (boo and yay to my own mind) interested them enough to tune in.   

I know the offspring are interested in the fate of the nation.  But I think that they’re not as fascinated by the awful spectacle because while the candidates’ views on issues are of course the most vital reasons to vote for one or the other, somehow they don’t have a dog in the race.

As for people as old as I am, age is the dog in the race.  What follows is a kind of ridiculous juxtaposition,  but I think all of us on the far side of work are apt to apply our own life experiences to our perception of Joe Biden’s candidacy, that is, the Democrats’ dilemma.  

 I left my paying job about five years ago.  I am energetic (just ask my four-legged walking companion), I am engaged in making things (this essay among them), I care about the world and I cherish my wonderful pals.  The days are  rich and full, and leaving was a good decision. But at least once every day, it occurs to me that I am on my own now, and I don’t have the heft of a Chronicle column  to convince people that my thoughts are worth sharing.

 I am not sorry I left the journalistic fiesta when I did, but I can’t help thinking that leaving work is a kind of amputation for most of us, a decision not made easily or lightly.  Magnify this a million times, and there’s Joe Biden, bombarded with advice from both admiring and ambitious friends. If he loses, he told George Stephanopoulos the other day, he’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he gave it his all. 

The candidate’s certification that he won’t regret anything is meaningless.  It’s not enough to say he worked hard; this is not an elementary school spelling bee.   If he runs and loses, he will have let down every American who voted for him (or perhaps voted against Donald Trump), and he will have allowed an immoral egomaniac to determine the future of our country.

Biden doesn’t look like he’s having fun.   His unlined face is usually expressionless.  His white-toothed smile conveys no joy in the political enterprise of his candidacy,  only fear that he’s going to slip up, only regret that he’s now forced to think about how to seem forceful.

Toward the end of my time at The Chronicle, I went to a cocktail party in a high-ceilinged space (actually, the SFMOMA lobby) about the introduction of some new technical/art  wizardry.  The gathering started at around six, and as the evening wore on, the cocktails were slurped down with increasing speed; conversation, among tech bros and sisters in cocktail dresses, got louder and louder.  I stood there, notebook in hand,  asking a few questions and trying to (first) hear and (then) decipher the answers.   But I couldn’t  hear what they were saying, I didn’t care about what they were saying, and I knew I was nothing but the old lady scribbling in the corner. 

My own ego told me it was time to protect myself. Like most all the brothers and sisters of my own generation,  I had to risk finding out what life was like without a professional identity. 

For Joe Biden, there would be the role of elder statesman, especially if he’d lend a hand to campaign for anyone else nominated.  There’s no shame in growing old.