Why am I glad I am old? I'll tell you.
November 13, 2024
Living through the sweeping changes in the world today, I often think how strange it feels to be relieved about the fact that I’m old, nearing the end of my years. It’s not because I’m tired of life; it’s because the America I see taking shape seems like a dark shadow of the country I grew up believing in. I spent a lifetime trusting in the ideals of democracy and the value of individual freedom, hoping to pass on those beliefs to the next generations. But now, I feel a grim relief that I may not have to live in a future where those values are all but erased, replaced by something dangerous and oppressive.
As someone who remembers watching civil rights marches on a black-and-white television, who listened to JFK’s and Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches about justice and equality, I believed America was far from perfect but was on a path that valued individual rights and democratic integrity. Today, I find myself wondering if all that progress meant anything, or if it was simply a mirage in the desert, fading away as we walked closer. It’s hard to ignore the signs now, signs that point to a government shifting away from the ideals of democracy and instead toward authoritarianism, all wrapped up in the brand of today’s GOP.
I never imagined I’d live to see the day when such drastic polarization would turn Americans against each other, not just on a political level but on a deeply personal, moral level. What is left of public discourse? What’s left of honest disagreement? It seems like it’s all been burned down, replaced by a party that seems to no longer serve its people but instead serves its own power, controlling the narrative, the votes, the laws, and soon—many fear—our lives.
The transformation began gradually, with small shifts in policies, then grew sharper, more cutting, as politicians openly dismantled norms that once protected democracy from erosion. Voting rights were chipped away in states across the country, district maps were redrawn to suppress the voices of entire communities, and laws were enacted to prevent so-called “voter fraud” but in practice discouraged minority voting. It wasn’t just about changing the rules, it was about making sure that only some voices counted, a clear violation of what I was taught democracy should be. Over time, the erosion became so commonplace, so expected, that people stopped reacting to it with outrage.
Some of the most insidious attacks on democracy have been through misinformation. Social media has become the breeding ground for an alternate reality, where facts no longer hold sway. A sizable portion of the public believes not what is true, but what they want to believe, or worse, what they’re told to believe by a barrage of misinformation. When a lie is repeated enough, especially by those in power, it starts to wear down the truth. And what happens to a democracy when the truth doesn’t matter anymore?
Then, of course, there’s the man at the center of it all—Donald Trump. I didn’t believe, when he was elected in 2016, that he would be able to do the kind of damage that he did. I thought, “It’s a temporary swing to the right. America’s institutions are strong; they will hold.” But I was wrong. Every time he crossed a boundary, every time he attacked a judge or ridiculed a journalist, every time he threatened to undermine the very fabric of checks and balances, we saw the limits of our institutions tested. Yet the people around him let it happen, justifying his words and actions to the public, making excuses, deflecting attention. Many others, previously silent, found permission in his words to express their own disdain for diversity, for justice, for equality. They were emboldened. And democracy was wounded, deeply.
As an older person, I grew up knowing that I would have the right to speak freely, to choose my leaders, to have my privacy respected, and to believe that each vote counted as much as the next person’s. The 2020 election became a litmus test for these beliefs. We saw armed militia groups trying to intimidate voters, constant, unfounded accusations of fraud, lawsuits, recounts, and finally, even an insurrection against our own government. And there were leaders in Washington who condoned it, even justified it. These events revealed how fragile democracy really is when those in power are willing to betray it to hold onto that power.
It doesn’t stop with Trump, either. His influence has infected the Republican Party, a party that once prided itself on principles of individual freedom and limited government. I’m old enough to remember that GOP. I even voted for it a time or two, back in the day. But this is no longer the party of Lincoln, or even Reagon. Today’s GOP is driven by a single goal: to hold onto power at all costs, by silencing opposition, twisting the rule of law, and manipulating public opinion. They’ve learned from Trump’s playbook, and many are only too eager to take it further, to turn the next election cycle into a battleground, to silence dissenting voices, to paint any opposition as enemies of the state.
The Republican Party today seems willing to undercut democracy in ways I could never have fathomed when I was younger. They’ve gerrymandered districts so extensively that it hardly matters who votes—outcomes are predetermined. They’ve enacted legislation to restrict voting access, hoping to keep the “wrong” people from the ballot box. They even made giving water to someone waiting in line to vote illegal. Who does that? And they’ve filled the courts with judges who are sympathetic to their cause, ensuring that even if a case makes it through the legal system, it’s already rigged against true justice.
This isn’t just about politics. It’s about the very fabric of society, about the right to question authority, to dissent, to live free of government control over our most personal decisions. I never thought I’d live to see women’s rights so threatened, or that LGBTQ+ people would once again fear for their safety and their rights, or that racism would be tacitly endorsed by people in power. America was supposed to be a place where anyone could find freedom, where diversity was celebrated. I see that idea slipping away, replaced by something ugly, something bitter and divisive.
I’m glad I’m old because I won’t be here to watch the final act. I won’t be here to see the moment when dissent becomes criminalized, when journalists are silenced, when protesting becomes an act of treason. I won’t be here to see the next generation of children grow up in a country where they are taught to obey, not to question, to follow the line, not to lead. I may not live to see the final disappearance of all that we once held dear.
But I can’t help but worry about today’s children, today’s grandchildren, and all the young people who didn’t ask for this but will have to live through it. I wonder if they’ll have the chance to fight for their freedom, or if the fight will have been lost before they even realize it’s happening. The America they inherit is not the America I once believed in. My generation was tasked with passing the torch of liberty, but I fear we’re passing on only ashes, the remnants of ideals we failed to protect.
In my old age, I find myself thinking more and more about what I wish I could have done differently, what all of us could have done differently. Maybe we should have fought harder, demanded more of our leaders, spoken out more fiercely against corruption and injustice. Maybe we became too complacent, believing that our institutions were unbreakable. Perhaps, if we had been more vigilant, more engaged, we could have stopped this transformation.
So yes, I am glad I’m old. I’m glad because I won’t be here to see the final descent into what I fear will be a land of broken promises, where “freedom” is a hollow word, spoken only in whispers. I hope I’m wrong. I hope those who follow me will find the strength to repair the damage, to rebuild what was broken. But in my bones, I feel the cold certainty of a future I am not sad to be missing.
