The New Invisibility

There was a time, not all that many years ago, when you wore your politics like clothing. If your hair was or wasn't a particular length, then it could be assumed that you supported or didn't the U.S, war in Vietnam. If you wore beads around your neck, or shunned button-down shirts or suits, then you must think this way. Even your age, or there appearance of maturity would cause people to assume things about your values or beliefs.

This is still true in some ways, especially for younger folks sporting tattoos, or piercings, or wearing certain styles of clothing.

With age, though comes liberation. Case in point. A couple of weeks ago I came to this realization on a freezing cold morning as I traveled alone across Oregon and on down to the Bay Area. I'd spent the night in a cozy mountain lodge of a motel in Shasta City, the small town in the shadow of breathtaking Mount Shasta. Anxious to get going the next morning, I awoke early and checked out about 6:30 am. It helped that the storm the previous night knocked out TV reception and I had fallen asleep at 7:70pm.

My car was encased in ice and looked like the small freezer in the old GE refrigerator I grew up with. The little box that needed to be defrosted with an ice pick every now and then.

After deicing my car, I decided to stop for hot coffee and what I'd hoped would be an adequate breakfast at a local coffeeshop. This little diner was as traditional as they get. Int had been there forever, and parts of the premises looked like it. There were four other people inside this cafe. One cook. two waitresses, and one other old guy, like me.

Back in the day, especially in some parts of this country, I'd have stuck out like a Democrat at a Trump Rally. Not so any more. My age and appearance, gray beard and all, gave me the freedom to blend in easily. Now, this may not seem like such a big deal, but as someone who has lived much of my life in the role of "other," it was astonishingly refreshing. As the waitress trope refilled my coffee cup, and the local country music station droned on with every song sounding the same, I realized I looked like I belonged. The food was barely passable, and I left more on my plate than I usually do, but I also left a generous tip because, after all, these employees needed a break from a job that was hardly their dream version. I thought for a minute about what kind of lives they lead, about the other guy who sat at the other end of the counter from me, and how many places around this country there were where this scene was repeating itself.

Comments

To a Tee

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