I am on record for some time now as noticing that the younger generation — my daughter Ginsberg and her friends, kids in their early twenties, as epicenter — are less — or not at all — racist. I was interested to note this article in the National Journal that posits the same change and gives you all the statistics to go with it (44 percent of the younger demographic is not white, for instance). But I was actually surprised by its thesis. That we older people are going to be in conflict with this younger generation and, oh my, whatever will happen then?
I have news for you, National Journal people. We older people are going to die and the world will be better off. Forget that not everyone our age is uncomfortable with gay people and ethnic minorities. We’re not. But it doesn’t matter because we can’t even find our car keys. They can beat us up any day of the week. They are up so many points it looks like down to them.
I know it’s a hard pill to take, but just as I rebelliously neglected to eat all the food on my plate while my mother stood by with her memories of the Depression and eating a bowl of popcorn for dinner because that’s all there was, if they were lucky, this remarkable generation of young people are not really interested in our fears of the Other. My mother could build an airplane, but she couldn’t figure out how to make coffee using anything but a tin coffee pot actually warmed up on the stove, like a cowboy. And you know what this refers to: twelve, twelve, twelve. It’s how many metaphorical minutes you have until you’re in the ground.
Go, Hateless Generation.