I Couldn’t Check the “Retiree” Box…

 Photo by Phil Lindstrom on Unsplash

I checked my watch: 9:05 a.m. A bit late today.

“Good morning!” Andy, the sunny, bubbly security guard, waved at me from the concierge counter and buzzed the gate open.

I waved back. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”

It was a small exchange, ordinary enough to disappear from memory. But today it stayed with me because it marked, quietly and without ceremony, one full year since I moved back to Taiwan and began living in this riverside apartment in greater Taipei.

I love this neighborhood. In the mornings, I walk along broad boulevards lined with tall trees and neatly trimmed bushes, while white butterflies drift across the pavements and various kinds of birds move through the branches. I will never get tired of seeing them.

During my first few months in the building, I often checked my watch before coming or going. I wondered whether Andy had noticed my schedule. I wondered whether he had already figured out that I did not have an office job.

For reasons I did not fully understand, I felt uncomfortable admitting that I was retired — even though I was financially free, and even though I had already been retired for nearly ten years.

It took me a while to realize that what embarrassed me was not retirement itself, but the possibility of appearing useless in public. Or, more precisely, the possibility of being perceived as useless — partly by others, and partly by myself.

The Job Title That Made Me Legible

I am not sure how or when this “useless” idea hit me. Perhaps it started when I was still a small kid and my teachers kept telling the class that it didn’t matter what occupation we chose in the future as long as we became “useful” and could contribute something to society.

Yet how could I blame others when, I suddenly realized, I carried exactly the same stereotype about retirees — travelling around the world, hiking, afternoon high teas. Pleasant activities, but those do not add to the productivity of society.

I had been travelling across regions for decades for work. I always checked “Finance” on immigration forms at airports. After retirement, the first time I realized that I could no longer tick “Finance” and had to check the box marked “Retiree,” I felt a flush of embarrassment, as if I had suddenly become a second-class citizen. Not that anybody actually looked at it. Not that I couldn’t afford my expenses.

Eager to escape that kind of discomfort, I got a freelance translation job so I could write “translator” instead of “retiree” on the immigration form while travelling or opening a bank account.

I enjoyed working between two languages. It feels like travelling between two worlds. Even though the pay was modest, it allowed me to get rid of the “retiree” checkbox on the immigration card. Even “translator” does not belong to any occupation category, and I had to put it under “Others,” but at least I held a job.

A job — something that made me feel more useful, more productive, and more legible.

My translation work has decreased as AI has become more popular. I mostly spend time reading, writing, and playing music, but when people ask, “What do you do?” I still say, “I am a freelance translator.” Simply because “translator” sounds more active than “retiree.”

I remember when I still worked in corporate life, I often told my friends that I was just a disposable asset, as the company could remove me anytime. Yet it seems that, after leaving the corporate world and stepping out of the normal career path, I could no longer be sure whether I still qualified as an asset.

The saddest part is that I found I was the one being judgmental. In the deepest part of my mind, I had been programmed to think that activities without actual economic value are considered useless, and not socially recognizable. I am the worst judge in the world!

I thought of when I lived in the Philippines. What struck me, looking back, was how much a household role — even a largely effortless one — had quietly adjusted my identity as a retiree. I ran the house as a wife, coordinated repairs, managed the daily logistics of a household with staff members. It was not a paid position, but it was a socially recognizable, functioning role. “Retiree” at that time seemed more like an additional tag, not a key identity. The role gave me a legibility I had not earned and did not question until it was gone.

Back in Taiwan, I no longer needed to maintain my own building or manage a household. That identity shield was removed. Now I am back to the “retiree” tag. And I was uncomfortable with it to the point that I had to use the “translator” tag as a substitute.

Can Retirees Pursue Something Serious?

It’s my motto that if I learn something, I would like to do it properly.

I wanted to strengthen my language skills, so I signed up for a 54-hour consecutive interpreting course. This course offered a pre-course qualification quiz and a post-course certification exam.

When I told my friend that I was studying interpreting, I was asked, “Why do you push yourself so hard? You have already retired. Do you want to be an interpreter?” I smiled.

My friend was right. The interpreting classes were hard. Lots of in-class drills and after-class assignments. My mouth muscles hurt, my brain cells burned. But I felt satisfied to see my progress, week by week.

In the interpreting class, I told one of my classmates how hard it had been to practice at home, and she replied, “Then don’t. You and I are both retired. Take it easy.” I did not listen to her. I practiced as often as I could.

I passed the exam and got the CI certificate, but no, I have not been proactively looking for interpreting jobs since then. My classmates were in awe when I told them that I did not plan to look for interpreting jobs. They felt it was a waste of investment. But I knew, from the beginning, that I just wanted to learn interpreting properly and achieve a personal milestone. Employment was not my real goal.

I finished learning a new skill, but because I did not monetize it, people could not understand what it was for.

Another subject I wanted to learn properly was playing the piano. Since I quit piano classes 30 years ago, I had been in self-entertaining mode, and I wanted to be able to reach a milestone — ABRSM Piano Grade 8.

When I started my piano class, my family asked me, “You already know how to play the piano. Why do you need to go for the certification? Are you going to be a piano teacher?”

Initially, I replied honestly that I just wanted to play the piano better. Then I was told this would be a waste of money. I finally told them I aimed to become a piano teacher to end the conversation.

I know I will never be qualified as a piano teacher even if I pass Grade 8 certification because, from what I have observed from my piano teacher Annie, it’s not just about knowing how to read the notes and play the pieces smoothly. It’s more about how to help students find the issues and point out solutions.

I simply enjoyed learning how to improve my key touch and make the Haydn and Joplin pieces sound closer to the way they should be. Yet I had to invent an economic purpose in order to make serious learning acceptable.

The prerequisite for Piano Grade 8 is to pass Music Theory Grade 5. Honestly, I am struggling with this. Intervals, chords, scales, inversions — those were, and still are, Greek to me.

When I mentioned to my friend that studying music theory was like learning a new language, and that it was challenging yet fun, I was told, “Why do you need to learn that? You are already retired.”

I just wanted to learn a new skill, but even that — for a retiree, learning something seriously seems inappropriate or in need of economic justification.

Interpreting, classical piano, music theory — these seem “too serious” for a retiree.

I understand my family and my friends meant well. But behind their questions is an invisible assumption: “Take it easy. You are already retired. You don’t need to go through these difficult quests.” And, “If you want to put in serious effort, you had better make money from it.”

I noticed that society seems to have one invisible frame for young people and another for older ones.

Young people are allowed to say, “I am studying,” “I am preparing,” “I am building toward something.” Older adults are expected to say, “I am keeping busy,” “I am taking it easy,” “I am doing this for fun.”

Young people are socially permitted to strive, get certifications, become ambitious, and pursue visible aspirations. Older adults are expected to stabilize, become useful quietly, stop striving publicly, and disappear into quiet retirement.

I was young before. I understand. At that age, I was allowed to dream big and try everything I wanted because the sky was the limit. But now, as a retiree, I am discouraged from learning subjects with serious effort.

I seemed to occupy a strange category: too old to begin certain professional paths, yet somehow also too old to visibly pursue mastery as a pure personal goal.

Leisure is permitted. Mastery requires justification.

It seems that, in addition to the age barrier, society struggles to recognize serious pursuits unless they can bring in visible economic outcomes. Activities such as reading, writing, music, and painting are considered pastime entertainment, so it is fine to do them casually; but once they become serious pursuits, even pursuits toward mastery, economic justification seems to be required, or else they become faintly illegitimate.

I don’t have answers for this invisible system. I only know that sometimes it feels immense and ancient, like standing before the Pyramid of Khufu.

Up to now, when people ask what I do all day, I still notice myself hesitating before answering honestly.

I read.

I write.

I practice piano.

Still, none of these answers feel entirely legitimate when spoken aloud, so I say, “I do translation work.”

Perhaps one of the strangest consequences of my corporate life is that after years of being valued for usefulness, I no longer know how to experience myself outside that framework.

Tomorrow morning, I will probably pass the concierge counter again. Andy may wave. I may check my watch again, although by now there is no real reason to.