I have to admit that I’ve always been kind of afraid of old people. Being Korean-American, I think that partially has to do with my natural deference for authority. I worry about self-censorship, about the role I’m expected to play, saying the right thing, relating to their life experiences. Maybe there’s something to the notion of being a bit closer to death too, but that might be a stretch.

The last week has been a period of reflection, of high highs and low lows, of facing myself with few distractions. Naturally, this creates some sense of isolationism and social anxiety, so I almost didn’t end up going to my Andover high school alumni event at Rush Street in Culver City. I did what I usually do when I’m anxious, and I pre-ate in preparation for my Uber journey to the West Side. Does anyone know that Subway has disgusting vegan veggie patty sandwiches? I’m not sure what possessed me to eat one of those, but I immediately felt nauseated and bloated, in perfect condition for mingling, of course.

I arrived an hour late and made my way past the hostess, pausing before heading upstairs and taking a breath. I smoothed my green wool Theory dress and black heels, the few remnants of my former professional life that were otherwise stacked in a Manhattan Mini-Storage at 220 South Street. I was pleasantly surprised that I glided past the small talk into comfortable conversation. It was the good kind of networking, cemented together by the knowledge that we’d lived as scared emo angsty teenagers in dorms, not fully appreciating the magnitude of the experience and opportunities we had at that time, though we did know how formative it would be.

Most people seemed to be in their 20s, 30s, and early 40s. And then there was Frank. I politely sat next to him and wondered what kind of awkward conversation we would have. Class of ’53 it said on his name tag pinned on his blue suit jacket. My mental math these days is disturbingly questionable, so I was glad when he led with a comment announcing he is 85 years old. When he shared that he was living in a retirement community in Seal Beach, and I looked blankly at him, I felt compelled to explain that I was new to LA and that I knew nothing. People generally feel more comfortable around you when they think you’re completely clueless, I’ve noticed, though they also sometimes quickly make an exit realizing you’re of no use to them too, so there’s also that reality.

Frank made me want to write his biography and also make something of my life. While I was eating vegan scones and laying in bed staring at the ceiling on my weekends dreading going to the gym, he and his wife were marching and protesting every weekend. They marched in Selma. We talked about political engagement, and he’s the first person who made me feel on an emotional level that there might still be some value contained in the act of demonstration, of showing up.

We also talked about mid-life crises and what it means to get to a point where you question what you’re doing in a fundamental way. The importance of traveling or looking beyond to get some perspective. The value of introspection.

He had seen so much in his lifetime. He recounted the days before Andover was diverse, before Andover and Abbot campuses merged to become co-ed, how unthinkable that had been at the time when he was in high school. His mother had been an early pioneer of women’s rights. She graduated from med school in 1920, one of the few, if not only, women and later went on to co-found Planned Parenthood. There had been one black kid in his class from a prominent family in Libya, and his family had a girl flown in from Libya for the prom.

What inspired me most were the stories of the teachers and experiences at Andover. Those who were so passionate about teaching that they assembled students and taught from their sickbeds while they had cancer. Those who were war heroes teaching history. Those who brought in Robert Frost to the classroom so kids could ask him questions and share their own poetry. Those who invested not only in education but making us better people. The school’s motto, Non Sibi (not for oneself), is the concept and life principle that’s influenced me the most. It’s driven me to look beyond revenues and achievements to ask the so what? How are we making the world a better place?

Looking back on the oldest living generations in the U.S., and I can understand why they’ve been called the Greatest Generation. People who lived through the Depression, fought in World War II, created our modern economy, basically built this country into a great country. It’s kind of sad actually to see how far we’ve fallen and how vacuous we have become as a society. We are more connected than ever, but the quality of those connections and interactions and the things that we are building makes me see how progress can sometimes happen without meaning. We are evolving as a species. There is so much more in the realm of the possible to make our lives faster, more convenient, information-rich. But as we get so scattered across devices, responsibilities, self-projection, I wonder if we are able to make the bigger moves and become bigger people living up to everything we have been given? Are we meant to maximize our productive capacity? I am guilty of being one of the prime examples of living for myself at the moment. I feel like I’m in incubation to do something more contributory. Now might be a time to actually make something of myself.

I have to thank Frank for being an example and a reminder that every moment in a choice and that it’s possible to connect on deeper principles across the generations.