The Leveson Centre for the Study of Ageing,
Spirituality and Social Policy
Age Discrimination - a new loneliness
Margaret Simey who died in 2004 was a social scientist. Her published
work includes Government by Consent (Bedford Square Press, 1985) and
Democracy Rediscovered (Pluto, 1988). This article is reproduced with
permission from Age Today Issue 1, Spring 2002 published by Help
the Aged. For details e-mail info@helptheaged.org.uk
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A journalist, apologising for her long silence since she last called
me, once said: 'To tell the truth, I had thought that you must …
' She halted in the nick of time. I laughed off her embarrassment
with the assurance that I wasn't dead yet. But it rankled. I'm tired
of being the subject of other people's assumptions about the state
I'm in. In practice, do they really constitute discrimination against
me and my kind?
One thing is for certain: old people like myself are almost universally
aware of the fact that we are somehow different, simply by virtue
of our age. We are no longer 'one of them'. We are a problem, a burden,
objects of pity and denied any role in the management of our affairs.
It is assumed that by the time we reach the arbitrary age of 60, we
are universally old, worn out with toil and poverty-stricken.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Take my own case - and I
am not a rare exception. I continued to live an exceptionally active
life as a local councillor and voluntary worker into my 90s. I own
my own house, am comfortably off, and have excellent support from
family and friends. But what is it about our allocation to the ranks
of the dependent that is so deeply wounding? Is it just that our own
pride is offended or is it something much more fundamental?
My eyes were opened when kind but misguided well-wishers organised
a surprise birthday party for me when I reached the age of 90. Until
then, I had been as active as any of them, deeply involved in voluntary
work, committee meetings and consultations. Suddenly, it occurred
to them, as it did to me, that I was old.
The transformation was stunning. I was no longer one of them. I was
an outsider. I seemed to be in a foreign country. I didn't speak the
language. I didn't know the rules. I was no longer me, Margaret, very
defiantly my own person. Now I was simply one of a mass of clones,
a stereotype, a number, not an individual. I was old and that was
all that needed to be said.
A thousand tiny incidents suddenly took on new significance. A trip
over a pavement resulted in a slightly damaged hipbone. It was decided
it didn't merit an operation. When I queried who had authorised the
decision, answer came there none. Presumably, it was assumed that
at my age life wouldn't be worth living anyway. When the case conference
was arranged to decide whether I was ready to go home, I was not invited.
(They decided it was too soon, but I went home anyway and led as busy
and active a life as ever.)
What does it feel like to be excluded like this from responsibility
for my own life? I experienced a totally new sense of loneliness,
not because I lack for company, but because I am no longer one of
them. This new loneliness is a novel phenomenon of our age; it spans
all generations as unemployment creeps on. But it is particularly
hard to bear on top of the tribulations of age. Like balloons filled
with gas but cut off from any solid base, we float aimlessly. It is
a denial of our need to belong, to have the security of a slot in
society, however minuscule.
I believe that the need to belong to some group is a fundamental
human necessity that is the glue that binds a community together.
We have to believe that we have some worth, some right to a place
in the life of the community. That is our human heritage. Deny us
that and we - and the community to which we belong - must surely perish.
Margaret Simey
