What comes to mind when you think of old people? I think of Mr. Wilson from “Dennis the Menace,” except wrinklier, grouchier and deafer.
This isn’t a completely inaccurate description of seniors. I’ve spent some time volunteering at the Lake Shore Retirement Center in Rogers Park. The people there tend to be wrinkled and sometimes grouchy — and the place has a distinct smell of ammonia and stale cafeteria food, among other odors.
Yes, it’s hard to work with the elderly. It’s difficult to face your own mortality and that of your loved ones. It’s tough to know that one day you’ll probably be just as uncomfortable and in need of help as these people.
But some of the most important things I’ve learned have come from volunteering at Lake Shore. I’ve learned nearly as much about history, world geography and psychology there as I have in many of my humanities distros at Northwestern.
Take my conversations with Juliet (whose name I’ve changed for patient confidentiality), a black woman who grew up in the segregated South. It’s one thing to read about Jim Crow in a textbook and a completely different experience to hear firsthand how it was natural for Juliet to drink from “colored” water fountains as a youngster.
When I was worried about yet another failed reaction in the research lab, going to Lake Shore grounded me. Talking to these people took me away from school and all its worries into a different time and place.
Charles, the resident ladies man, will never fail to slip me a wink and a smile, noting: “Every morning when you wake up you just gotta be glad you’re one day older, and that you can go win more funny munny at Bingo today.” If only A’s in biology came as easily as Bingo funny munny.
And at Lake Shore, it’s not just the residents who make each visit great. The former security guard, Dinpal, never failed to crack me up. Each week I had to suggest a more American nickname for him. At a place like NU, nobody thinks twice about how your name sounds, but Dinpal’s sobriquet struggle introduced me to the lengths people will go to realize what they think is the American Dream.
Then there’s the Kenyan nurse on the fourth floor who tries to speak to me in Hindi. Unfortunately, his knowledge of the language is limited to the words he learns from Bollywood films and hasn’t progressed beyond the classic phrases “I love you” and “Will you marry me?” At that point we just start talking in English, but my mom would be shocked to know my first proposal for an Indian wedding came from a Kenyan.
The afternoons I’ve spent at Lake Shore rank among my fondest NU memories. I’ve begun to come to terms with the fact that I’ll probably live in a nursing home sometime in the autumn of my years. Hopefully by then there will be improved odor control and souped-up wheelchairs.
And when some stressed-out college students come by, I’ll tell them to chill out (if the kids are still saying it) and win some funny munny.
