Come On, Boomers!
Are we too old to be listened to? Let’s cheer each other on!
How is it possible that new writers, having just joined Medium last month, have already found close to 1000 followers? I’ve been here since last year and am nowhere near that! Here’s what I think:
Gen Z and Millennial writers have “Boomer Radar.” For the first time, I’m showing a picture of what I look like these days. Before now, they knew by the first few sentences of every essay I wrote that I remember where I was when JFK was shot.
They know in some inexplicable way that I saw Joni Mitchell (Ravinia), James Taylor (Auditorium), and Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young (Champaign) performing live when they were all redefining the playlist we still hear everywhere. I’m unsure where I saw America, Simon and Garfunkel, or Linda Rondstadt. It could have been another city.
Also, Jethro Tull because of flutist Ian Anderson and the song “Thick as a Brick.” Led Zeppelin and the Allman Brothers Band even though I wasn’t a rocker. Van Morrison and tons of performances at the Amazing Grace Coffeehouse in Evanston (Steve Goodman, Arlo Guthrie, and I think that’s where I saw John Prine). Bonnie Raitt concerts where she dressed in skintight leather (and I’m still going to hear her live whenever possible). Paul McCartney and Wings at the Chicago Stadium (someone really did ask out loud if he’d been in a previous band).
I’d remember more if I hadn’t been a little high some of the time. I’m not one of the oldest boomers (born 1946–64), but not one of the youngest either.
The doubters suspect that the first album I bought with my babysitting money was Carol King’s Tapestry (I loved every single song). They probably know from how I write that I also bought a Yamaha guitar that summer ($35, and yes, I still have it) so I could sing and play along with Carol. And yes, I parted my hair down the middle, was always asked where my people came from, and boycotted grapes and lettuce in solidarity with California farm workers.
I also protested the Vietnam War and remember handing in an essay after the Paris Peace Accords ended U.S. involvement in Vietnam (and ending 25 years of forced conscription, meaning the end of the Draft). Boys in my grade whooped and celebrated, but many older brothers had a tough time. The husband of the family I babysat for got addicted to pain medicine there, and the wife struggled with two young children. For about .75 an hour, I babysat two to three days a week after school. Hence, I was flush with money to buy records and a guitar.
The young, vibrant, much-followed writers clearly understand all of this. They’re not interested in our Boomer thoughts, dreams, or reminiscing. We are the ages of their parents or grandparents, and reading what we write is like listening to Uncle Marty talk about barbequing, Uncle Milton rattling off statistics, and Grandpa ranting about how Republicans used to be the ones with common sense.
Also, this isn’t obvious from my writing, I seem to have shrunk, and I’m clearly a LITTLE old lady. I can only hope that my fellow “alte kahkers” will rally and support each other’s writing. Come on, Boomers!
