A Love Letter to Gen X
When talking about my generation, I’m considered Gen X. A label used to describe Americans born between 1965 – 1980. Adults in autumn who are between the ages of 44-59. Adults who remember springtime childhoods of growing up in an America that no longer exists. An America completely unrecognizable today.
Nostalgia is a powerful elixir. A mixture of Kodachrome memories that may or may not have happened. A restorative we willingly ingest to soothe our souls as we try and make sense of our brave new world. Pining for a world that only exists in our heads but still makes our hearts happy. Smiles and laughs animating our faces as we reminisce about our past life.
I lived my childhood outdoors. Winter, spring, summer and fall. My friends only needed to call and yes, I was there.
There was a newly built playground to complement our newly built elementary school. Our playground a ménage à trois. A slide, a swingers set, and a metallic contraption to climb and sway on. Device’s requiring the rampant optimism of childhood that nothing can damage your body.
We explored the fragments of prairies and forests that remained among the patchwork of new suburban housing developments planted across Chicagoland. Discovering the abundance of life flourishing in these self-sufficient ecosystems. Like Horton, we had childlike faith in the existence of the Who’s that lived in these little worlds. My childhood absent of the physical load or the psychological fears of parents who teether their children to cell phones.
We employed “stranger danger” common sense and traveled in packs. Observing the movements of the sun to stay safe and inform us when we should return home. This before images of a nations lost children appeared on milk cartons. Before the horrible crimes of Pogo were exposed. A deeply disturbed, creepy clown whose murderous crimes of young men were televised daily into our safe space.
My generation was the last to view our national circus. Watching its three televised rings. Each circle consisting of three letters; NBC, CBS or ABC. There was no fox to disturb the hen house. Like the Aztec empire in 1519, unaware that everything would change. A conquistador of channels arriving, bringing hundreds of new TV stations.
Before continuous loops of 24/7 television, programming was regularly scheduled. The circus closing its tent in the early morning of each new day. The moon waning, the sun not yet awake.
The National Anthem playing as the screen displayed images of a patriotic America. Ultimately obliterating into wavy lines and sounding like an angry hissing snake. Warning those still awake to go to bed immediately, don’t pass go. Warning others to tread lightly before proceeding on any new adventure.
Growing up in Chicagoland there were sideshows like WGN; the hometown favorite. Along with a smorgasbord of UHF channels. Past prime time shows and classic cartoons in syndication. Ready to enjoy if the weather was cruelty free. Demonstrating kindness to the rabbit ears protruding from our roof top.
PBS an outlier on the circus grounds. Even if we would visit our neighbor Mr. Rogers or stop by Julia Child’s kitchen. Sesame Street seemed unfamiliar. We were suburban kids, not city children. Even if the collage of colors were common in both locales.
In between Saturday cartoons, we learned history, science and grammar watching Schoolhouse Rock. Asking what is the function of conjunction junction? and is zero a hero? These harmonious nuggets of learning remain. Still able to musically recite the Preamble to the US Constitution. “We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice and ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the United States of America.”
Our news consistent in its reporting, irrespective of what ring it was being broadcast. The most trusted man in America was a news anchor. For close to twenty years, he told us every evening “and that’s the way it is”. The nation never once believing the news was fake.
Video games were a novelty growing up. When my parents purchased an Atari home console from Sears, Pong received very little of our attention. Artificial reality unable to compete with the actual reality of the natural world. Our exploration endless. Our bicycles beasts of burden.
Patrick and Velimir aka Butch, Ronald and Dino, Carlos and Steve. We would travel in pairs, other times as a pride. Our shared enemy the setting sun. Slowly exterminating our childhood moments. Sinking further into the western horizon, its lite-brite dimming our play day.
Even as video games evolved in the early 1980’s, our enemies were Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde. Ghosts packed in the machine. The demise of these four colorful phantoms, quickly progressed to quenching our primal craving of destruction.
A story we share with our brothers Abel and Cain. Winning video games became about killing other human beings; marketing them as our enemy. This was simply a game, even if the characters looked more realistic and more human with each new iteration.
My friends and I were sensitized to violence; we understood the difference between reality and fantasy. When we saw blood, it was usually our own. The result of wheelies gone awry as we maneuvered our bikes like Evil Knievel. Our scrapped knees, bruised ankles and scratched knuckles an emblem of a childhood well lived.
We knew when Christmas break was near. Those preparations beginning after Thanksgiving when commerce closed and giving thanks came first. On CBS, Linus would remind us, and Charlie Brown of the true meaning of Christmas two weeks before the actual Holiday. Most of the time we were like Charlie Brown’s younger sister. Making it clear all she wants from Santa is her fair share, “all I want is what I got coming to me”. Good grief, Ms. Sally Brown.
Individuals, families and communities were physically connected with one another. Even during moments of inconsideration or political difference. Our neighbors were never our enemies.
As working middle class Americans, we had a shared understanding that we were in this together. Doing our best to help each other out. Virtual thoughts and prayers always fall short of meaningfully impacting someone’s life compared to genuine comfort and tangible actions.
We didn’t live in our own echo chamber of cheap virtue signaling. Trying to show strangers how happy we are based on “likes”. Our friends were real friends because they were our neighbors and congregants. We spoke to each other in real-time like real people having real conversations.
If you spewed self-absorbed opinions or judgement of others, you kept it to yourself. We understood that words have consequences. If you still felt compelled to saying something, you said it directly to that person as opposed to cowering behind an electronic screen. That’s how crazy talk was negated, and harmony managed.
We no longer ducked and covered in school. Instead, we practiced emergency drills in response to threats of nature, specifically tornados. Not because of young men who are dangerously disconnected from the world and mentally ill. This manmade menace tragically escalating as the last century began its final exit. Years of abandoning purposeless young men to violent video games, homes without fathers, a Pandora’s Box of psychotic medications and anti-social media would bear bitter fruit.
Technological “advances” fracturing our social cohesiveness with each passing year. Cable TV, the Walkman, smart phones, the Internet and of course “social media”. All these changes contributing to our physical disengagement from one another and consequently from God.
The world I remember growing-up in was far less violent, far less disharmonious, far less judgmental. It was far more social, far more civilized, and far more humane. My childhood years wonderfully nostalgic and I miss them.