As recently as three, maybe four years ago, I struggled with my own perceptions of ‘my generation’.  I found abundant ways to criticize my peers, and myself, for our trivialities, our banalities, our bizarre tendencies to interact in abstract ways, our apathy.  I was annoyed by our eagerness to wallow in premature nostalgia for the decade in which we were born.  I was disgusted by our narcissism.  I hated the way we embrace the voyeurism that the internet allows us.  I scoffed at the self-gratifying memoir-writing, blog-posting, accomplishment-announcing, trauma-glorifying proclamations we make.  I sorrowed over the way we fomented jealousy, arrogance and neediness by gorging on each others triumphs, setbacks and compliments.  I felt angry that our parents sheltered us, coddled us, told us that we could do anything we wanted, to the point that we all believe that we were really, truly special.  And, typical of all the aforementioned, I was even sad that we, that my generation, grew up in a time of plenty, unchallenged by any outside forces or events to demand of us, and in doing so, define us.

It wasn’t until very recently, maybe three, four months ago, that I realized how grateful I am for all of this.

Last September, I moved to a new town, something that used to be a regular habit of mine.  I hadn’t done that for several years.  I had a hard time the task of finding a job in a strange place, something that I have also done quite a few times before, albeit not during a recession.  Suddenly all of the stories I’ve heard about the unemployed became a little more real to me.  I have to qualify that statement, because I have a few things that diminish the specter of long term unemployment:  I do not have kids (and the responsibility to provide for them).  I am not middle-aged.  I have no debt (thank you, scholarships).  I have three totally different, viable resumes.  The panics that I felt must have been a mere shadow of the terror that some people are living.    To wake up, and have maybe an hour or two of bright happiness with your family where you don’t think about the rest of your day:  an afternoon tinged with desperation, filled with resume-submitting, phone-call making, and internet-searching.  This is followed by a sleepless night of panicked realizations and absolute, crushing hopelessness.  Every day.  Over and over again.

We are in the middle of a recession, staring at the possibility of years more of it, with even further to fall.  Am I happy that my generation spends a lot of their time waiting for their recognition?  Feeling entitled and disproportionately special compared to the next person?  YES, yes I am.  For the first time, there is something demanded of us.  We have to crawl out of our massive debt, and pay, for the rest of our lives, taxes to take care of our aging parents, without any promise of the same resources to care for us.  We have a fragile environment that we will continue to rely on, and resources to stretch thin.  We are not going to have the life our parents had.  To get through this, we are going to have to be more creative, more resourceful, more forward thinking and more self-sacrificing than we have previously been capable of.  For the first time, we have a chance to prove ourselves and maybe, someday, probably not in our lifetimes, earn the recognition that we are all accustomed to and desire. 

Will my generation be able to do it?  I don’t know, but at least our own greatness is one thing in which we all believe.  Its a start, of sorts.

Here's hoping that we can live up to that.

Book Club

Last month I had the privilege of attending a book club meeting – wonderful because I was invited by a distant family member that I’d like to get to know, wonderful because I don’t have a lot of human interaction to fill my weekdays, and wonderful because all of the women are in their 70s and 80s and have been friends for many years.  I felt exquisitely lucky to be invited into a circle that familiar and established. 

The book was "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks" by Rebecca Skloot.  I highly recommend it.   The themes are compelling:  doctor-patient ethics, racism, poverty, cervical cancer, the history of cellular biology (more interesting than you might assume).  Of course, with topics that edgy, in a group of people who were essentially strangers to me, I had no idea what to expect. 

One of the first things mentioned in the discussion was vaginal self-examinations: “Women didn’t palpate their own vaginas in the ‘50s, let alone talk about them.”  It took me a moment to recover from the shock of hearing a graceful 80-year-old woman say ‘vagina’ over coffee and cake.  The next youngest woman in the room had 50 years on me, so it was exciting to hear first hand accounts of growing up in such a different time.  Especially when it was so honest.

At that point I still could not get a feel for their political or social affiliations.  The eldest woman there had studied biology in college in the 1940s.  By that point, she said, they still hadn’t discovered a cell’s nucleus.  The ability to magnify was not far enough along.  She talked about how quickly the science progressed while she was studying, and how far it had advanced today.  She groaned, “And don’t get me started on stem cell research!”

All of the women shook their heads in disgust.  Uh oh.  Obviously this was a point they all agreed on.  She continued, “I have some choice words about those politicians blocking those initiatives, but I don’t want to be rude.”  Whew.  She then related a story she’d recently read, about a boy who had the first stem cell trachea replacement.  It had saved his life. 

That woman not only had a degree in Biology during a time when few women were in college, but she went on for her Master’s in Environmental Biology from UCSB.  Incredible.

We talked about political demonstrations: “We should put our bodies where our mouths are and head to De La Guerra Plaza” (in reference to Occupy Santa Barbara), and about capital punishment:  “I don’t believe in capital punishment.  He is just a young confused man.”  This was said by a woman whose son had been murdered ten years ago, in reference to his killer.  Several of the ladies disagreed, threatening to strangle the perpetrator themselves if they ever met him. 

Who are these ladies?  They were so educated, so progressive, so welcoming.  And honestly, who casually uses the word ‘palpate’ outside of a hospital? What secret bastion of liberalism had I stumbled into?    I must admit that I felt more interested in their personal stories than discussing the book.  I was tickled to be there. I was hooked.

Our next book is T.C. Boyle’s "Tortilla Curtain" (YES!  They invited me back!).  Many of the ladies had already read it, but were more than willing to read it again.  “After all,” one said, “he is a local boy.” 

I knew his name, had I read one of his books?  And he was local?  The exhilarating sensation I’d felt a number of times since moving down here – the feeling of having access, to being so close to people, events, locations, rushed to my head.  I’ve had a hard time describing what it feels like to grow up in Alaska.  There is a sense of disconnect, as though everything that happens in the Lower 48 is abstract and sometimes impersonal.  Events often feel as far away as they physically are, despite the immediacy of news and communication.  The thing is, I don’t actually mind.  Sometimes a little detachment can be refreshing.  But now that I live in California again, in Southern California no less, I am trying to cultivate every experience I can to make it feel familiar, engaging and fulfilling.  This might be a symptom of growing up in a small town, but the fact that the author of the book I am reading lives relatively nearby makes it all the more enjoyable.  It makes the book feel more accessible, and it makes me feel connected, however tenuously.

 That is, in no small part, thanks to those amazing women.