I just learned something
important. From a child’s wagon.
It happened like this: Walking along the bike
path, I spotted a little boy, walking with his mother and pulling a red wagon. He
was a little kid, maybe three feet tall, so cute with his over-sized baseball
cap turned half-sideways. As I got closer and greeted them, I saw that the
wagon was a Radio Flyer. Like many folks, I had a Radio Flyer as a child and it
remains one of my fondest memories toy-wise. In fact, I’m so attached to Radio
Flyers that I have one on my desk, a gift from my partner who appreciates the
meaning of these childhood icons.
So this kid’s Radio Flyer brought
an instant smile to my face. It was different from the little red wagon I recall, but easily
identifiable from the bright red color and the white lettering—just like the
mini-one on my desk. His was molded plastic, shaped to be a comfortable ride as
well as a handy mobile box for carrying stuff. For a second, I considered
asking his mom if I could take a picture of the wagon, maybe with the kid
pulling it. I would have said something to the little boy like, “I had a Radio
Flyer when I was a kid, too. Only mine was very different from this one. It was
smaller, and it was made of metal. But it was bright red like yours, and had
the very same white writing on the side. It’s so fun to see that they’re still
around! I’d love to take a picture of you and your wagon. OK?”
But I didn’t do that. And here’s
why. In those (very few) minutes between seeing them, recognizing the Radio
Flyer logo, and considering taking a picture, I invented an entire scenario about
the mom’s likely response. She would be thinking to herself, “Oh, boy! An old
lady who’s going to tell me how cute Jimmie is and then talk all about her
childhood, how different it was way back then . . . ” Later, mom would meet with her coffee
klatch friends (I did notice my own stereotyping as I thought this), and she’d
tell them all about our encounter. She’d say, “I was walking with Jimmie and
his wagon, and this old lady came up. She stopped to talk to me, and she was all
. . .” Then, in a quivery voice intended to mimic old people, she’d play me: “Oh,
what a cute child! And that wagon is so wonderful! I had a Radio Flyer when I
was a child, but back then, they were made of metal . . .” Then, after a few ‘old
lady’ lines like that, she’d say “So I was thinking to myself, ‘Oh great!
Stories about the old days. You probably walked uphill through snowdrifts to
get to school, too.’” She’d wrap up her tale with something like, “So this lady
wanted to take a picture of Jimmie and his wagon, so I said ‘sure’ just to be
done with it.”
After running that through my
head, I walked on without the picture. Almost immediately, I realized what I
had just done. I assumed that her reaction would be totally ageist, when I had
no reason whatsoever to think that—except my own assumptions, my own stereotypes,
my own internalized ageism.
I immediately (and easily)
conjured up an alternative scenario that went like this: After I take the picture, the mom and Jimmie walk on, the mom saying, “Wasn’t that nice? Isn’t it cool that she had a wagon
almost like yours?” Later, she’d meet with her friends for coffee and tell them
the story. “I was walking with Jimmie and his wagon, and this woman came up to
us and started a conversation. She said ‘hi’ to both of us, and then started
talking about Jimmie’s wagon. It turns out that she had a Radio Flyer when she
was a kid, and she still remembers it with such pleasure. She told Jimmie about
how different it was—metal instead of plastic and all—and then asked him if he’d
like to have his picture taken with his wagon. It was just so nice—sort of a
connection across three or four generations. All over a wagon.”
I have no idea, of course, which
of those (if either) would have transpired if I’d stopped and asked to take the
picture. The point is more what I learned about my own fears, my own assumptions,
and the things I might miss by giving into those. Psychologists (wait … I am a
psychologist!) would call it projection—I attributed my own internalized ageist
stereotypes to someone else, assuming they’d have the reaction to me that I
expect/fear. By avoiding the risk of that, I missed a chance to learn something
important, to revise my own beliefs.
I walk that path a lot. Maybe I’ll
get a second chance.
© Janis
Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to
the post.
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