Bay Alarm Medical Scholarship Entry - Seniors Help Seniors

The prompt for this contest was to write about how to help the elders in our lives. The experiences of the seniors in our lives are invaluable. Coming from an immigrant background, the lives of my grandparents and I cannot be more different, but I hold their connections close.

my grandparents (Ba Ngoai and Ong Ngoai) sitting at home

“May 24th.” This is the fifth time I’ve said this.

It was a dry February day that made Ông Ngoại’s house a bit too warm for comfort. There were sounds of shuffling and wheezing until he asked again, “What day do you graduate, con?”

I sighed. “May 24th."

My grandparents used to know me like the backs of their hands. Ever since I was a baby, they took care of me while my parents went to work. They knew my nap times, my favorite foods, and sang my favorite lullabies. I wish I could say I know them the same way.

I’m older now, and I don't spend as much time with my grandparents as I used to. It is during visits like these that I tell them what’s going on with my life, as I moved from middle school to high school to college in five years, while they have been doing the same typical grandparent things for the past twenty. I used to think my grandparents were immortal and that they’ve always looked old, but I notice the details now. They look older than old. My grandpa’s hair is falling off, his frame is getting thin. There were random patches of black hair from when he used to dye it, but now he looks like a balding snowman.

Those wrinkles that hold over eighty years of experience sunk deeper. Those wrinkles. They sat upon a body that existed since 1930, and is still here, moving up and down as Grandpa tries to orient his iPad. Imprints of farming life, a war, and a family life with eight children are wrapped up all in the little man I call “Ông Ngoại.” He’s three inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter, but in terms of wisdom? Infinitely larger.

“What day do you graduate, con?” He smiles, wrinkles there too.

“May 24th,” I replied. I know he’ll ask again in five minutes.

It doesn’t take much to make him smile. He asks me to visit whenever I can, and smiles before I even park the car. He smiles when he peels me a banana, when he waters his plants, when he sings his hymns. Compared to me, he never needs much to feel happy. After raising his eight kids, and watching those eight kids raise their own kids, I think he's at peace. There isn’t anything to chase anymore. What do the rest of us feel like we need to accomplish? College. Work. House. Car. Ông Ngoại didn't have all of those things, and his life is drastically unlike mine in ways I can't comprehend... But he feels peace. That’s the biggest lesson I learned from him—how to find contentment in a hectic world.

It’s not just him. Friends’ grandparents, older mentors, teachers, and folks at the nursing home can all teach the younger generation a thing or two. Viewing life from their perspective is so radically different, it’s like a reality check. Working with seniors inspires me constantly. With them, time slows down. They live life to the fullest without the chase of material items or some idea of what’s enough. After all, they know it may never be reached. It always changes to fit a newer standard, and you will eventually realize enough will never be enough. Seniors understand that; they’ve lived through it.

I don’t visit my grandparents very much, or at least, a lot less than I probably should. There’s always a math test to study for, a textbook to read, an essay to finish… But when I go to my grandparents’ house, time stands still. I’m four years old again and Barney is playing on TV. An orange is already peeled for me on the table. All the things that I’ve been busy with lose meaning when I’m with them.

As I’ve grown older, I've struggled to maintain fluency in my native language. I view seniors as comparable to a treasure chest, filled with countless stories and lessons that can only be gained through experience. I used to view Ông Ngoại as someone who was just a grandpa his whole life, like maybe he was born wrinkly and white-haired and had a particular taste for Vietnamese Catholic music. Now he’s another person who I’d like to get to know better. What was it like growing up on the farms? What did you think of on your wedding night? How was life during the war? I’m interested in hearing from other elders, but the story of Ông Ngoại—the way it could’ve changed the existence of everyone I’ve known—makes it personal. I strongly encourage people my age to interact with seniors because they are exceptionally valuable in wisdom and knowledge. Who’s better to get advice from than a primary source? Even if it’s an hour a week, the bond that will be created is invaluable.

“Ông Ngoại… I’m going to college in a few months. It’s a 4-hour drive,” I say, raising my voice so he could hear me.

He turns his head. “What? What day do you graduate, con? You are getting so big and leaving me and Bà Ngoại behind.”

I smile. “Actually, can you sing my favorite lullaby?”