In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
Garrison Keillor recently wrote something to the effect that it's shocking to wake up one morning and realize that the guys you knew in school as “Lumpy” and “Numbnuts” are now running the country.
I'm not there yet, but I'm starting to see my contemporaries pop up in some pretty prominent places.
It's always a shock to see new pictures of folks you knew many years ago. They look so...grown up. Which means, by extension...
Humph. Yes. Well.
I laughed out loud when I read Penelope Trunk's post about wanting to kill her guest columnist, because he wrote about bridging the gap between Boomers and Gen Y as if Gen X didn't even exist. Yes, we're a smaller group than the ones on either side of us, but it's a bit early to consign us to obscurity. In academia, we're the generation that didn't get hired, so the pre-Boomers and early Boomers could ride out their life tenure undisturbed. (On campus, I've literally been the generational translator a few times. It's a disconcerting role.) But if we're not taken seriously, I foresee some pretty major leadership vacuums in a few years.
The signs of middle age are there. On the young side, I blog, I download music, and I don't consider the 1960's to have been the apotheosis of human civilization. On the old side, I don't 'text,' I actually pay for the music I download, and I have adult memory of the Clinton administration. As Gen X hits middle age, our numerical invisibility becomes a cultural invisibility, too. Where have you gone, Winona Ryder? A generation turns its lonely eyes to you...
But then I remember some of the drama of the twenties, and give thanks to be done with that. Adolescent angst doesn't age terribly well. (Just ask Winona!) Every cohort gets its window, and every window eventually closes. I don't intend to miss mine with endless hand-wringing.
Folks of a certain age will appreciate this: I remember, as a kid, watching reruns of One Day at a Time. (For the younger readers: that was Valerie Bertinelli's initial claim to fame.) On one episode, the Mom was upset that she was middle-aged. She was 36. At the time, I thought she was right. After all, as the ever-helpful older daughter pointed out, the average life expectancy at the time was 72, so 36 is midway there. That's the definition of middle age. Halfway there.
Yes, Boomers like to say that fifty is the new thirty, but they're Boomers. We expect that kind of thing from them. They mean well, but honestly.
It's our turn to step up to the plate. Yes, I'm a little mortified when I read my alumni update and see that Lumpy is starting to wield real power in this world. But I'm also proud of the folks I've known who are actually making a positive difference. I'm proud to be that boringly square Dad who rushes home to spend time with his bride and his kids. And I'm increasingly okay with letting go of the dramas of youth, like so much unnecessary hair.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.