When is being ‘elder’ more than just being ‘older’?

It had been a routine get-together for the weekly Native American program at my kids’ school. The organizer had given a prayer, and everyone showed up with their appetites as dinner was ready. The savory aroma of grilled salmon and corn-on-the-cob beckoned us all closer to the cafeteria serving line. “Elders first,” the program director said, motioning the graying adults over to the stack of trays as the kids and younger parents stayed put. A beat later she patted me on the arm. “You too, Brian.”

A lightning bolt shot through me. Was this accurate? Hungry, I didn’t debate the matter for more than a second. But soon I found myself sitting down with the hot meal and contemplating the label with every satisfying bite.

“Elder” isn’t a unique term to Native people, but it is one that I feel is very special to us. Growing up and visiting my relatives, we were always told to revere those Niimiipuu who came in with graying or silver hair, not to interrupt them and to offer them a chair if they needed one. They were our wisdom keepers, our sagebearers of culture and history. Elders led parades, conducted ceremonies or shared stories of the old times with us.

As I picked a fine bone from my teeth and squeezed a lemon wedge on the rest of my salmon, I wondered what warranted my elder status. Was I seen as learned or courageous? Wise and insightful? I began to fear if I measured up to the role.

That was five years ago, and my once jet-black hair is now a dull graphite. Fine wrinkles continue to line my features, and a liver spot has even emerged on my creased cheek. I’ve spent plenty of time reflecting on the matter, knowing that being an elder is truly a designation of great respect and responsibility.

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten since 2020.

Well, also that the term is one best bestowed by others and not by oneself.

I flashed back a couple decades back to an argument I observed once at the Nez Perce National Park, where I worked summers as a seasonal ranger. It was more a snippy exchange, and I don’t even know who started it. But I had walked in on the closing arguments, with one woman storming out as she told the other, “You better respect me and hold your tongue, I’m an elder!”

A beat after she left, the other woman muttered, “Respect nuthin. You’re just someone who got old.” A couple other people in the room cackled.

I’d hear of other occasional squabbles between older people in my tribe, sometimes over language, sometimes over religion, sometimes over old family disputes. Further questions emerged: Do elders argue with each other? Even over petty things? If one berates another unfairly, is there a penalty of sorts? A demotion from elder to “notable senior”?

And then I’d ask myself if there were qualifying exams or contests to determine who was Top Elder, imagining everything from written tests to some kind of pageant (no swimsuit competition, please!) in my overactive mind.

And yes, I’ve even Googled “elder” plus “Native” and come across a multitude of attempted definitions, many with the caveat that not all cultures or communities may adhere to the same standard.

When my cranium spins out entirely and I give myself a mad moment to just think in clear open terms, “What is an elder?” the recurring answer is usually that of a (generally nice) person who upholds their culture; who doesn’t try to talk down to others or outcompete them; who wants to help the next generation not only learn their tribal history but celebrate it. And in various ways, big or small, improve on their service to their tribe and be a proud representative.

It’s a question I still explore and discuss to this day as I’ve moved from bold and punchy to old and paunchy. For now, I’m just happy to be first in line for the salmon because my arches aren’t what they used to be.