Gen X: Nostalgia For an Age That Never Existed

I am a Gen X’er and at 53 years old I’ve been lucky to see a thing or two. As my generation is peaking professionally and in life, we should all be celebrating and sharing our unique snarkiness with our children and even grandchildren. Instead, we’re yelling at kids to “get off my lawn.” We are becoming what we always ridiculed, Boomers.

Granted, not every one of my Gen X comrades is turning into a Boomer and likewise not every Boomer I know acts like one. I’m certainly not writing this article to start another inter-generational skirmish but I can’t help but be appalled that so many of my friends and colleagues are turning into them.

My generation is going on and on about celebrating being neglected and how life was simpler back before smartphones, and whatever else was old and perceived to be better.

The question I have is, was it better back then as everyone seems to think? Was it simpler and more genuine? Or were we just deluded into thinking it was? Did we allow time to erode the sharp corner of painful memories only to leave a soft scar we caress in our minds?

I hadn’t seen my college friend in 16 years. The last time I saw her was when she visited me in Albuquerque with her pre-husband. I knew him as well, he graduated in her class and they ended up getting married the following year. They built a life together, had two kids, and eventually got divorced.

We met up because she wanted to pick my brain about making a career change. She wanted to move into the field that I was working in and needed a deeper understanding of what it entailed. We met up halfway between our houses at a Whole Foods.

It was like old times, we picked up where we left off, and talked of the good times in college. We caught up on our mutual friends and what they were doing before things took a darker path.

We ended up talking about the underbelly of college, the world that I had never seen but all the women had. The parties where drinks were spiked and women were coerced into sex. There was no talk ever of consent. Then there were the whispers of domestic violence. I didn’t know how terrible it was, how dangerous it was for my fellow generational colleagues — who just happened to have a vagina — to go to college.

My eyes were opened that day, and I could never go back.

I was lucky to never have been a latchkey kid. My mother was a traditional stay-at-home German mother. My friends didn’t have that luxury. We’d come home from school, maybe grab a snack, and meet up out on the street with our bicycles.

We built ramps, rode our bikes everywhere, and had a blast. Some of the memes are indeed true. There always was a risk of injury and we rode further than we let our parents know. We never wore helmets because they weren’t readily available at the time and you were a sissy if you did.

By the time 6 PM rolled around we’d all have to go home for dinner and homework, except my one friend who was a latchkey kid. He’d just ride off and grab a leftover buttered roll at 7–11 that was on sale and a bit stale.

When I turned into a teenager and was legally able to do so, I started working at the local gas station. New Jersey and Oregon were the two states at the time where it was full service. A gas station attendant would have to fill up your car with gas. It was a simple and fun job, I made only $6 an hour but I got to work outside and see my friends.

Of course, I got to see all the cute girls that would walk or drive by. I developed a bit of a crush on this one girl who would walk home from school every day. She was a sophomore in high school and I was a senior. I was working up the courage to talk to her when I noticed she was putting on a lot of weight quickly.

Another month went by and I realized what was happening, she was pregnant. She had an on and off again boyfriend who was quite a bit older than her. She eventually dropped out of school and had the baby at 16.

In the Spring we’d have to do track and field events for Physical Education (PE) classes. I was never the fastest runner, typically one of the last ones to finish. The stronger and more physically fit boys would always be racing one another and often single out another boy that was “lower” on the social ladder in High School.

I was running behind a pack of those boys when they bee-lined it to my classmate Andre. They caught up to him and then started pushing him, tripping him up, and he finally crashed at the edge of the track and rolled down a small hill. They laughed and ran past him as he lay bleeding.

My first thought was, “Thank God it’s not me this time.” I helped him up and we finished class. I wanted Andre to tell the PE instructor but he dared not report it, it would only open him up to more bullying later.

I admit, I have been feeling a bit nostalgic for life in the 80s and 90s. I do miss the music, the fashion, and the general excitement of being young in those decades. What I don’t miss is the bullying, toxic masculinity, non-consent, neglect, and general bad behavior.

Life seemed simpler back then because we didn’t know better. Our parents weren’t around to warn us, so we had to figure things out the hard way. We had to learn to survive on our own, and we wear that badge with honor. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if that wasn’t truly a badge of honor, perhaps it’s a badge of shame.

On the surface just surviving seems like a good thing, but just how much better would our lives be if we had been thriving instead? I’d rather be thriving instead of surviving because the inherent premise is that we’d be growing.

Perhaps our snarkiness and aloofness are just a defense mechanism against the dark and murky current that moved our life along? Perhaps this is why so many of us are turning into annoying Boomers and being nostalgic for an age that never existed.

An age where we were innocent and fed to the wolves, and those of us who survived it, long for something simple that never was.