I leaned toward the computer screen, squinting. The recent college graduate was explaining the codes and procedures for data entry to me the day I volunteered at the Tennessee Democratic Party Headquarters. I leaned back and said I'd need to go get my reading glasses from the backpack in my car. "Oh, yeah," he replied, "the print can be really small." "Well, the reality is," I explained, "when ya hit 40, is usually becomes an issue." "Yeah, that's what my dad says."
Hmmmph. Whippersnapper!
Later, he was showing me a different part of the procedure and volunteered to read out those small numbers to me. "C'mon!" I moaned. I'm not that bad off. "Oh, sorry," he came back. As he left me to the task, I removed my glasses and said, "I'm 53," all the while thinking that must register as "ancient" to him. "But, I feel like I am your age." "Well, that's encouraging," he said.
Whippersnapper.
A day of data entry done, I drove from the office and realized I'd been categorized. And, it didn't feel good.
Early on in my work with a mystic shaman this past year, categories have been something he has stressed. Categories are boxes we put people in: Old. Young. Dumb. Smart. Rich. Poor. Homeless. Disabled. And categories keep us separate. We raise up the sides of the box, construct the walls that keep us from knowing, learning, interacting. And, forgetting that we are all in this together. This thing called life. And instead of the illusion of separate, the reality is that we are all one.
Photo source: "Urban Politico"
