Time to Declare . . .
. . . and, after many years of confusion, I have come to the conclusion I am NOT a Baby Boomer.
Argument on this subject has raged for some time amongst certain contemporaries. My observations, as opposed to detailed facts brought about by careful scientific research, owe more to the simple pleasures of in vino veritas.
The simple truth is I am baby sister to seasoned boomers and while my existence was of no consequence to them, theirs to mine was inestimable. Big brothers, every one of them, they were not about to bother sitting down and playing dolls, all two of them, with me. So I tried to play football with them but of course I was always in the way.
They had money to spend which they spent on cigarettes, going to movies and buying records. They talked about the movies, Steve McQueen, Robert Mitchum et al being de facto role models, and the records they bought became the soundtrack to the rest of my life. Parents listened to and loved Frank, Dean and Tony while loathing the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and that was before The Who, Led Zeppelin, Marc Bolan, Jim Morrison and his Doors and every other long-haired, screaming mongrel who gave my father the heebie-jeebies with their howling baby, baby, baby. Which, of course, was no way to treat a woman, let alone a lady.
My brothers, at boomer peak, were old enough to go to Woodstock but Woodstock was a world away from the suburb we called home. The oldest brother, however, was old enough to go to Vietnam which was also a world away but his number came up and off he went. Dodging the draft? Hell no, that was for wimps, not for real men and not for sons of real men for whom WW!! was not that distant a memory, reality lasting forever.
I know my place, always have and always will and I am not a baby boomer. No problem for me. Others, alas, the wannabe boomers, who wanted to grow flowers in their hair after the event, have difficulty accepting their status which comes virtue of being a contemporary of mine without older siblings. I grew up with what they came to later in their lives, the nostalgia of les temps perdu.
As kiblings, kid sisters and brothers of the baby boomers, I propose we take charge and celebrate being in a class of our very own – Mid-Century Modern. Straddling the best of both worlds in excellent company.
MCM’s – let’s do something for ourselves. Remember the sacrifices, say thank you. Not old enough to go to Woodstock but the record stays with us forever. We had Donny, a fellow MCM, giving us Puppy Love, but did Donny, like me have Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young as de facto older siblings? Lighting fires and putting the flowers in the vase bought today? Is it too late to be doing it for ourselves?
Or rather, too late to be doing it for myself ?