In sharing my reflections on gerontology, I have come to realize a flaw in the chronology of my posts. What should have been the first of my publications here has instead ended up fourth on the list, behind an ESL trauma dump and a goose named Turkey. The flaw in question lies in the fact that I have yet to actually define who is an older adult within the spatiotemporal, cultural, and sociological context I am speaking about.
As such, I saw it fitting to repurpose an old lecture of mine—content that I presented to students in my Gerodesign course last Spring. They paid ~$11k to take my course for credit at Brown. You get this knowledge for free. Put the money you save here into an IRA or something.
Theories and philosophies surrounding old age have existed for several millennia in ancient civilizations. In ancient China, for example, scholars believed that people grew old because of a natural decline in our yin and yang while in ancient Greece, Hippocrates believed that aging occurred because of gradual declines in our innate heat or vital force. Aztec elders were revered for their old age—symbolizing survival in the battleground or from illness. And in plenty of other cultures, older adults were identified by their wisdom, occupying revered titles as those responsible for passing down and preserving knowledge.
But of course, these definitions of old age exist within a specific context shaped by the culture of that time and place. As civilizations evolve and age, so too do their definitions of old age. The question here is: how then am I, the writer of this blog, choosing to define old age for my purposes?
The Chronological Definition
In modern America, we often default to a chronological definition of old age. We tend to think of older adults as people who are 65 years or older, and this is a very convenient definition.
This definition was popularized because of the Social Security Act—signed in 1935—that, for the first time, set a legal age for participating in a federal program for older adults. And we’ve since taken this definition and run with it—using it to determine eligibility for research studies, Medicare, and SSI to name a few.
Of course, there are caveats to this rule, as American policy doesn’t strictly follow the 65 year benchmark. Eligibility for SSRI and Reverse Mortgage Programs, for example, is 62 while retirement age for Gen Z is 67. But it just shows that policy, especially health and welfare policy, has historically held immense influence over how Americans intuitively understand who we consider older adults to be.
A chronological definition of age has been adopted by many other countries as well, albeit sometimes in slightly different manners. For example, countries like Turkey have chronological retirement ages, but these ages are different for men (60) versus women (58). And these chronological definitions of old age are constantly evolving. It wasn’t that long ago when protests ensued across France over the Borne government’s proposition to increase retirement age to 64. The Netherlands have taken things one step further, linking retirement age to life expectancy rather than to a stagnant number.
At the same time, there are plenty of cultures that don’t place as strong of a weight on a chronological definition of old age. This is especially true for countries that lack the infrastructure to provide welfare or government assistance to older adults—lacking the need for a legal, chronological definition of old age—or perhaps, simply because their older adult population is small because of short life expectancy. At the same time, many countries don’t register births, so a significant portion of their population lack the documentation to know their exact chronological age and birth date. In fact, in 2019, UNICEF published a report estimating that up to a quarter of the world’s children under five were not registered at birth. Perhaps, in these cultures, a chronological definition of old age isn’t as important than in countries like America where that definition is essentially codified into law.
The Functional Definition
There are plenty of other definitions of old age that exist. One is a functional definition. Chances are, if you ask an older adult when they started to feel old, they usually won’t say “when I hit 65”. Rather they allude to some conscious experience they had of physiological changes in their bodies: for example, achy joints or back pain or menopause.
And function is often age-associated. We tend to associate disability and disabling diseases with older adults: arthritis, strokes, and dementia, for example. Furthermore, assistive technology for disabilities, like walkers and wheelchairs, are often used as symbols of old age in media, marketing, and elsewhere—despite the fact that people of all ages use these technologies.
And looking at things from a cross-cultural perspective here, a report by Francis M. Cox and Ndung'u Mberia in 1977 found that the Kikuyu people of Kenya predominantly adopted a functional definition of old age. In their culture, women were considered old when they “can no longer work in the garden, when she cannot carry a small load on her back, and when she keeps dropping the cooking pot”. Definitions of age are stratified across cultural dimensions.
The Sociological Definition
In addition to this functional definition of old age, there also exists a sociological definition. Sociologists argue that you become an older adult when you begin to occupy the social location of an older adult—a location created by the norms and expectations of larger society.
Social location is defined as your position in society based on the various facets of your intersectional identity.
What roles are you expected to have?
What status do you hold?
What physical locations are you expected to occupy?
There are several events in our lives that transition us into the social location of an older adult—for example, retirement, becoming a great-grandparent, or moving into a long-term care facility. So the older adult population, in the sociological context, would consist of all of the people who have transitioned into the social locations associated with the “older adult” and its associated role sets.
Old age is also associated with stereotypes—which are oftentimes ageist in nature. Think of the crazy cat lady stereotype that manifests as a result of hoarding disorder prevalence in older adults (more on my research here in a future post) or the curmudgeonly neighbor waving around his cane. Think of our infantilization of older adults as cute, incompetent, or helpless despite the fact that these older adults might have an MD or PhD.
Old age is also accompanied by sociological phenomena like role loss. When your husband or wife passes away, you lose the role associated with being a spouse. When your children are older and have their own families, your responsibilities as a parent changes. When you retire or are no longer physically well enough to work, you lose your role as a worker. What’s more—losing these roles might make an individual feel as though they are losing value. Therefore, the sociological definition of old age involves changes in perceived value as much as it involves changes in roles.
And so there are lots of ways of defining, “Who is an older adult?” But, no matter how you might define old age— chronologically, functionally, sociologically—these neat definitions tend to break down in the messiness of the real world.
In terms of the functional definition, defining the onset of old age as the development of age-associated, disabling condition is inherently ageist because it posits that all older adults are limited by disability. However, plenty of older adults live healthy, active lives. Take for instance a study by Columbia in 2016, where researchers found that only 10% of U.S. adults aged 65 and older have dementia while only 22% have mild cognitive impairment. The majority of older Americans have cognitive function on par with other age groups. Consider data from the 2017 National Health Interview Survey administered by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. When asked to rate their overall health, 82% of adults ages 65 to 74 described it as excellent (18%), very good (32%) or good (32%). It’s also important to note that age-associated conditions like arthritis and diabetes can affect children and younger adults too. As a result, this functional definition of age tends to break down.
In terms of the sociological definition of old age, plenty of older adults don’t conform neatly to their socially prescribed statuses, roles, and behaviors. For example, fewer and fewer older adults are choosing to retire—out of choice or rising life expectancy but more likely because of rising retirement costs. Plenty of older adults are not actually grandparents or become grandparents when they are in their mid 30s. Or perhaps, they hold social roles and statuses typically associated with younger adults—for example, Billy Joel who had his youngest child at 68. Once again, we see this definition of old age break down.
There also exists a huge mindset component—I have met plenty of 70 year olds who feel the same as they did at 17 and met 40 year olds complaining about their “old bodies”. In high school, when I worked in assisted living, plenty of my residents had active sex lives. And I’ve met older adults who ski and run marathons—individuals who are perhaps more athletic than I am.
And so, the complexities of the real world and the idiosyncrasies of the older adult population make it so there is no way to singularly and neatly define who is an older adult. Therefore, the definition I am using in this blog is, really, no definition at all, or perhaps all of them at the same time.
Maybe I’m an asshole for making you read all of this, just to say “never mind, there’s no answer.” But hopefully, you enjoyed reading the mental gymnastics that I grapple with everyday as a gerontology major.
Older? Who? Honestly, I couldn’t tell you.