The Geriatric Gaze

    The “male gaze” is the way in which the visual arts and literature depict the world and women from a masculine point of view, presenting women as objects of male pleasure.

I entered the M4 bus on the coldest of winter days. I cannot say I bounded the steps with youthful alacrity, but I did pretty well — no cane or walker to assist my ascent. There was a hat pulled down over my brow, a thick scarf swaddling my neck, and I was bundled head to toe in parka, fleece-lined yoga pants, and boots fit for hiking an Alpine trail.

At first sight of me two passengers jumped up simultaneously — as if an electrical current had just passed under their seats. Indeed, the posted sign “Please Give Your Seat to the Old or Disabled” suggested they do so. But how — even with sunglasses concealing all that nasty business around the eyes — did they know? 

The sign itself — two adjectives in search of a noun — has always amused me. I picture a phalanx of the old and disabled (humans? barnyard animals? zoo creatures?) boarding the bus at once as in some dystopian movie of the end of days. What would become of the other passengers? Would the driver change the destination sign? Pull a hood and scythe out of the duffle bag that sits beside him in the huge plastic enclosure that engulfs him? And exactly what anticipated catastrophe was that enclosure designed to resist? 

Such thoughts could consume a reverie the whole length of a Fifth Avenue ride. But this day was different. Something had changed. After decades of being invisible, I was seen again. The sense of emitting an electromagnetic force, a force I could neither understand nor control, recalled the time I was first seen.

It was the white latex bathing suit with the zipper up the back that did it. I wore it to the beach at Winthrop, Mass., the summer I turned 15. Before that day I had spent years sunbathing or swimming at that beach, a body among a mass of unremarkable bodies. The suit changed everything. The very air around me was suddenly charged; wave upon wave of the male gaze. It was to follow as I grew older, but didn’t disappear for good until I reached my 50s. 

I was never a beauty — and that irresistible flush of just-bloomed desirability was soon to fade — but any woman of average looks who takes reasonable care of her appearance lives in its web. And finds a way to respond. 

The BBDO I entered as a young secretary was the quintessential New York advertising agency of “Mad Men.” The suggestive speech that would trigger an H.R. investigation today was a matter of course; being cornered in an office or having a breast cupped from behind as your boss reached for the phone in your hand earned him the designation of “pig” and taught you how to duck and weave. I recall only one moment of indignation on my part, one rebellion.

I had overheard one of the senior account executives commenting to my boss on a memo “your broad sent me.”

Perhaps it was “your” — the implication that I was a possession of my boss. Perhaps it was “broad” — a crude degradation of all things female. 

Empowered by rage, I waited until he returned to his office and was seated behind his desk, walked right in, walked right up to him, and said: “By ‘your broad,’ did you mean me? Were you talking about me?” 

His response (surprise, confusion, shame, apology) affirmed that I had a voice. And although I used that confrontational voice in other situations thereafter, it was never in response to the male gaze.

There was no need. Catcalls or once-overs on the street were simply part of the urban scene. And many encounters with the male gaze were welcome, even fun. Half a century later I remember a sudden burst of rain as I was waiting to cross Broadway and a large umbrella opening over me, held by a tall, handsome stranger. We kept an even pace as we walked and talked under that umbrella for two blocks until I reached my destination, and he gave a swift bow and disappeared into the crowd. 

I remember other men; occasions when I traveled alone for work or to visit family — less tall or handsome, but interesting nevertheless. Men who struck up conversations in an airport lounge or hotel lobby or clearly chose the aisle seat when they saw me seated by the window. 

It was easy enough to work affectionate mention of my husband into early conversational forays — and though some wandered off, many stayed. A few live on in memory: a constitutional lawyer headed to D.C. to plead at the Supreme Court, a Texas rancher, a filmmaker. We talked until it was time to go, parted with good feeling, and that was that. Each meeting a window into lives different from my own. Each meeting a confirmation of my continued viability in the world. More than viability, agency — the power to attract, to effect action — in the world around me.

By my 50s, I began to notice that the seat next to me remained vacant until occupied by a woman — often, like me, one in her middle years. I colored my hair, let it grow and restyled it into a straighter bob, tweaked my makeup. My dear husband — who always saw me as young and appealing as the day we met — didn’t notice. Nor did anyone else. 

I had become a hologram, a disembodied mirage. It was to last for 25 years. 

Not that long ago, slowly making my way through the heavy revolving door at the Yale Club to attend a memorial service, I felt a shove that practically knocked me over. As the well-dressed shover raced by me, he murmured over his shoulder, “Push!” 

And what I had assumed was the male gaze was not gender specific. I would struggle to heave my suitcase onto the overhead rack while the young woman beside me secured her own and took her seat. Even the flight attendant looked right through me as she made her way up the aisle. 

Until that day on the bus when — as an object of the geriatric gaze — I was seen again. It kept on happening. There were “mama”s and even a few “grandma”s from homeless people seated on the sidewalk. When I paused in a store or restaurant to ask directions to the ladies’ room (an increasingly common occurrence), people often stopped in their tracks to walk me right up to the door. Hesitating on a curb, wondering whether to charge a heap of snow or attempt a wide stride over a pool of water, someone would wordlessly appear and offer an arm. 

It took time to replace “No thanks, I’m okay” with “Thank you very much” to offers of a seat or a helping hand. I now take it as my due. As I move into my ninth decade of life I have learned that it is at least as blessed to receive as to give. And really rather pleasant.

Ann Burack-Weiss is the author of “The Lioness in Winter: Writing an Old Woman’s Life,” published by Columbia University Press in 2015. She has lived part time in Montauk for 44 years.