Generation B for Blame: Waiting on the World to Change


A Millennial friend of mine whose empathetic perspective I admire and never tire of recently posted this:

“Hi, millennials! We don’t like being judged and having older generations throwing their crap at us. So idea: Let’s not do that to future younger generations. Break the cycle. Next idea: Stop blaming older generations for our current problems. Yeah, maybe they messed things up, but hey we’re gonna mess stuff up, too. And I know I certainly don’t want to be judged and blamed by future generations for the election of that monster we call Trump. Because you know that very well could be our legacy, right? RIGHT?”

As an (older) dad of a Gen Z eleven-year-old girl, having essentially skipped a generation, (god, I hope that “Z” classification doesn’t mean she’ll be the last generation on the planet!) I feel generational blame rather keenly.  And so I offer my perspective to that of my friend, and for her friends.

Every generation
Blames the one before,
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door.
-Mike & the Mechanics

Those that came of age in the 60’s and 70’s are the worst critics of those who came of age in the 00’s and 10’s, but their reasons may surprise you.

The ’60/’70 Gen, the children of the post-WWII generation were the “hippies and radicals” that would ruin society.  Judged more by the length of their hair and their music than their race or economic background, they were not just criticized by their elder generation, they were reviled and even hated–blamed for the destruction of all that they and their parents worked for.  It was far more than disapproval, it was war.  And it was ugly.  And think of the WWII Generation, they literally just saved the world and now these damn kids are going to ruin it!

Trump is most compared now to Nixon and for good reason.  For Gen ’60/’70, they killed Kennedy (their Obama) and gave them Nixon.  The parallels from then to now are truly astounding, and it looks for all the world that we haven’t gone anywhere.

Gen ’60/’70 fought, rebelled, and even died for their convictions for a free society and for open loving.  They accomplished quite a lot (more than they give themselves credit for), but not all.

They imagined a future for their children; a bright, caring, peaceful, (hairy) and loving future.  Those children are Gen ’00/’10, our Millennials.  I want you to know that you, my millennial friends, are their golden children.  The special ones who would live the beautiful lives that they dreamed for you.  (Unfortunately, they told you that a little too often.)

When they blame you, it’s not because they see you as failures, it’s because they saw you as their hope, one they blithely embraced and never stopped to doubt.  They look at you and say, “Why aren’t you living that life we wanted for you, what’s wrong with you?!”

You can’t be blamed for the life you have any more than they can be blamed for reaching too high for you.  The world is a tough place.

When your elders criticize you, [minus the perennial assholes of every generation] it is not the criticism of hate and derision that they once endured. No, and you must realize this; it is the criticism reserved for those we love and cherish and want the best for.  It isn’t right, but it’s human.

At the bottom of their anger and disappointment, is the fear that THEY have failed YOU.

Maybe the world still has Trumps and Nixons, maybe we still hate and kill each other.  But, what I wish I could tell your critical elders is that they did NOT fail their golden children.  Boomers, though they didn’t inherit the perfect world you promised to bring them, you did bring to the earth and rear a generation who believe in equality, who value peace, and who trust in love, just the way you hoped they would.  You persevered, and so will they.  Ease up.

I also harbor a hope that you, millennials, can reconsider your pre-contempt and distrust of your elders, who like you, took a naive shot at utopia and missed.  You are SO MUCH more alike than not.  I wish you could see yourselves from my eyes.  Anyone who is really paying attention knows, you already have what is most important.

And when the time comes, take my friend’s advice and cut the Gen Z a break.

PROTEST: Millennials find their purpose and define an era


Strange how our values become galvanized when threatened.

So, we’ve somehow managed to elect the poster child of hapless, self-serving, demagoguery who has relit the old fire sticks of hatred, intolerance, and isolationism (as if they ever really went out).

So, we take to the streets and we protest.

Flower 6.jpg

The Flower Power movement was birthed in Berkeley, California in the late 1960’s as means of symbolic protest against the Vietnam War. Beatnik writer Allen Ginsberg, promoted the use of “masses of flowers” to hand to policemen, press, politicians and spectators to civilly fight violence with peace.

Today reminds me SO MUCH of the nineteen sixties.  I remember the images of race riots, bloodied faces, nightsticks, state funerals of fallen leaders, Buddhist monks lighting themselves on fire.  Death by gun violence then was two points higher per 100,000 than it is today.  I was a few years too young (to my eternal gratitude), but the nation’s young were being forced from their homes, shoveled into boot camps and used as cannon fodder to fight an unjust war.

So, they took to the streets.

In 1967 they protested against violence and the war in Vietnam.

In 2017 they will protest against hatred and intolerance.

Flower 7.jpgWhen we were kids, whining was not tolerated in my family.  If my siblings or I cried too much about something that made us unhappy, we would hear that infamous question, “You want something to cry about? I’ll GIVE you something to cry about!” which was followed by a few swift smacks.  It was meant to force us to consider whining as a poor strategy, but it always made me think, “Great, now I have TWO things to cry about!”  Whining, you see, is complaint without action, and my parents couldn’t stand it.

The often-maligned Millennial, accused of laziness and whining, a generation coddled then forgotten, suddenly feels that sharp slap and the taste of iron in their mouths.

Flower 3.jpg
Photograph by Jay L. Clendenin / LA Times 

Now it’s different, now it’s personal.  A once lost generation has found its purpose.

For someone like me, it is so deeply painful to watch innocence come of age in an ugly world, but it is equally inspiring.  What will they forge in their crucible?  What outcomes will they gain–for all of us.

Of all the images my young mind retained in that era, the most powerful and transformative one was the image of a flower stuck down the barrel of a gun.  It takes some balls to face down an adrenalin-bathed military guard with a bayonetted rifle pointed at your head and approach with nothing but a flower.  The symbology was perfect, “Make Love not War”, and the insight extraordinary in its time–You can’t fight violence with violence.  The message of Love did an end run around the mind of violence and spoke directly to the heart of peace.

flower 2 (1).jpgThe protests mattered, and we eventually won.

I’ve been stricken lately with how much the protesters today against ‘he who must not be named’ look like the protestors from 50 years ago.  They are just as brave, just as determined, and just as full of purpose.  There is a laser focus to their intention that reveals a beauty in them that has lain dormant until now.  Adversity reveals true mettle.

I hope they continue to know that you can’t fight hate with hate.

And we’re going to need more flowers.

Flower4 (1).jpg

The Trouble With Texting


SMS (short message service) began in 1992 and was initially a way of sending brief informational messages like “I’ll be late” or “there’s an emergency” or when you need a quick “yes” or “no” answer.  It has evolved now into… well, I don’t have to tell you what.  There’s no question it’s useful, I use it all the time now, but it is SO easy we let it rob from us the quality of our human communication.  SUCH an easy crutch to use NOT to face each other, NOT to be spontaneous, immediate, genuine–REAL.

Professor Albert Mehrabian has pioneered the understanding of communications since the 1960s.  Mehrabian’s research provided the basis for the widely quoted statistic for the effectiveness of spoken communications.

Here is a representation of Mehrabian’s findings on the communications of feelings and attitudes:

  • 7% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is in the words that are spoken. (or, presumably, written in a text?)
  • 38% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is paralinguistic (the way that the words are said; tone, inflection, etc.).
  • 55% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is in facial expression. (This includes body language and physiological ‘presence’)

Think about this the next time you try to explain your feelings and attitudes by texting.  Think about how you can pop that paltry 7% all the way up to 45% just by pressing a button on your phone.  With this bonus, do you really have to fake not seeing a text just to give yourself time to think about what you want to say?  Your voice is beautiful, and the way you search for the right words says as much as the words you find.  Any premeditated communication bears an inherent falseness to it.  Do you really want that burden?

The written word can certainly be powerful in expression if used in poetry or full-blown, quality prose, but how many excellent writers are out there?  I’m the guy whose texts are very long and complete, with fully spelled words and correct punctuation when I try to express my feelings and attitudes.  It often makes me feel self-conscious, wordy, and verbose, but I don’t care.  Having my meaning heard as I meant to convey it is important to me.

Truncated, abbreviated and “emoticated” messages mock the beauty of language do they not?   How many times have you said less or left out a thought because it was too long to text?  How do others perceive you when your average response is under five words?  What kind of value will they grant you if you present yourself as the equivalent of a coloring book outline?  And, what treacherous depths of misunderstanding will you never even be aware of?

I’m as guilty as you, nearly.  I use it.  I do my disciplined best to preserve language, craft my words, use metaphor, allusion, (and try not to use) etc.  But, if you take the time to write well when you text, you will more often find yourself saying, “Aw hell, I’ll just call and talk.”

I don’t know about you, but I like hearing peoples’ voices.


A Greater Voice: The Power of Our Intention

angel-gabriel-1986When I was five years old I was suddenly tired all the time, then I got a bad cold. After a week in bed, I was taken to the doctors and ended up in the Children’s ICU at a hospital in Rochester, NY. I had contracted mononucleosis complicated with double pneumonia. I stayed there for a month, and I left with not only my health, but also a strange experience and an early lesson I have kept with me.

In my family, you pretty much had to have a limb dangling in order to be taken to the doctor’s. My mother was not big on doctors. When I was thirteen I broke my back playing football. I lived on the couch for weeks before I could walk; Mom never took me to get it checked so I only learned years later that I had broken a piece of my lower vertebra off and that my body had eventually dissolved it.

I had two younger sisters and two very loud older brothers then, so I was very happy for the quiet, and more than a little happy with all the attention. There was only one other boy in the ward; his name was Robbie. Robbie had a tracheotomy, and once he could talk we had many pleasant conversations between nurse and doctor visits and being hauled out for x-rays and tests. I was always better one on one. My bed was right by the door and there was a picture window on the wall alongside it, allowing me to watch the comings and goings in the hall when they didn’t have the curtain drawn.

Robbie left after one week, but I had to stay, having only gotten worse. (I still wonder what became of Robbie; he was a fine fellow.) I was alone the rest of my time there. Funny how you don’t retain the parts that hurt when you are that young. Between painful shots of vitamin C in my butt each day (I remember that part), and a nose so continually stuffed that my upper lip was bloody and blistered from blowing, I had a delightful time of it. I had plenty of attention and felt kind of special; I didn’t get that at home.

The long hours and days were filled with the singular bliss of reading my Little Golden Books! You may remember Little Golden Books, they were a popular children’s book series with cardboard covers and a distinctive gold-leaf spine. Every time my parents visited, they asked me if there was anything I needed, the only reply I remember was, “More Golden Books!” The long days were filled with pouring over them again and again. I amassed quite a stack of them. They lived by my side in my bed at all times. I would wake up a lot during the night, and they were my constant companions.

As weeks went on, my condition worsened. My nose and sinus had gone completely solid. I thought I must have been getting better because I didn’t have to brave the blisters and blow my nose anymore. One day the doctor came in with a bunch of nurses and my mother. He was carrying a length of wire that was glowing red-hot. He explained what he needed to do and promised me he would not touch the wire to my skin, and then proceeded to put the wire up one nostril then the other, straight up into my sinus. It smoked, and it sizzled inside my head. It was not at all comfortable, but true to his word, he never burned me.

Some time after that, the doctor called my parents, who were both visiting together, out into the hallway. I watched them through the window talking, but could not hear what they were saying. I remember noticing that my parents looked very serious, and when they came back in to say goodnight seemed unusually nice, said a lot of nice things to me that I don’t remember, and didn’t seem to want to leave. They promised that they would be back first thing in the morning, and kept asking if I’d be alright. “Why wouldn’t I,” I thought, “I’ve got my books, I’m fine”

Years later, my mother told me that the doctor had told them that I probably would not make it. It must have been a hard night for them, but my night was quite different.

The late nurses were gone, the dim lights were on, and I was completely alone and awake in the middle of the night, my trusty Golden Books by my side, just looking around the room when I heard a voice. It is difficult to describe the sound of it. It was at once the most powerful and the gentlest voice you could imagine; I thought of it as a male voice, but it was neither male nor female, it was every voice; it was a great voice. It was not a voice in my head; it was outside of me and filled the room. It seemed to come from behind and above me, I remember looking to see what was there, but there was only the wall.

It called me by name, and I asked it if it was God. I don’t remember the answer, but my little catholic brain concluded that it must be God. It explained to me that I was very very sick and that I was not getting better. The doctors were doing everything they could, but they could not do it without my help. It said that it understood how comfortable I was here, but that I was not doing my part. The only specific words I retained was this sentence, “It is not enough that you are comfortable, you must try little one, you must try to get better.” It made me promise that from here I would pay attention to this and that I would remember that I must try to get better.

I promised.

I got better.

I was elated and didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, that God talked to me last night and told me that I had to get better and that I was going to get better. My mother was a devout Catholic, and I can’t imagine what she must have thought of this; I never got to ask her.

Years later I asked a well-known trance psychic about this during a reading and he said “Yes, call it the Angel Gabriel if you like, there are those who look after us and he is the one who sends us messages when we most need them, this is why he is depicted with a horn.” I am not a devout Catholic, but I practice openness devoutly enough to be certain that there are greater voices to be heard and heeded. Certainly this was. And, to be honest, I kind of like the idea that the Angel Gabriel came down to blow his horn for me.

There have often been times in my life when things worked well enough, and I settled into a kind of complacency that kept me in one place, not happy, only merely content. It is always then that things fall apart, forcing me to remember my promise.

Life will never happen to you without the power of your own intention. Had I not heard that greater voice, I would not be here to tell you this: “It is not enough that you are comfortable, you must try little one, you must try to get better.”

I will try.

I am trying.

I have done.

Circles: Why we end up feeling like bad friends.

3479d297f2b1b0afac12e07e401f17bf-d4uft42Social media puts every circle of friends we ever had right in our faces, every day. I love seeing the tiny slivers of their lives, it reminds me of who they are and who we were together, but it makes me feel inadequate somehow. That gladness of being able to peek at them now is tinged with a remorse that I can’t quite place. Why aren’t we closer? Why did we grow apart? Why wasn’t I a better friend?

The easy excuse I give myself is that it’s because they moved away, went to school, got a different job, got married, had kids, but I know that isn’t true. Many of my current circles live away, and I am still in touch. I tell myself there are only so many people I can fit in the lifeboat of my current life, and that makes sense, but I will resist even sending them a poke. Why? It’s so easy.

If I am truly honest with myself, it is because I regret who I was. The person I am now is a richer, deeper, newer, truer version of me. I couldn’t give that to them then, and maybe I didn’t know how. So I let them fall out of orbit. My curser hovers over them, but does not click. I am secretly asking myself; why wasn’t I better, more honest, more present, how did I fail them, why did I let them drift away? Perhaps it is not them I resist, but the person I was, the one I don’t care to revisit?

I realize now that these questions are self-involved, those in my distant circles have their own experience and make their own choices, perhaps they secretly ask themselves the same questions. With a different perspective, I can see that we all grow, change, evolve, and follow our own specific destinies. All these circles taken together flower in a way that is mirrored in nature; husks and pedals fall away as each seed fulfills itself.

My limited belief is one of lack, “Why didn’t I love them better?” Our true failure, however, lies in not seeing the good in what we were to them, why they loved us, what we gave them, and how we were the best that we knew how to be for them, then. One thread remains, always, the love that connected us. As they are forever a part of who we became, so we are forever a part of who they became. From an even greater perspective, that love became a part of someone else in their circles, and circles, and circles and circles. Like pollen it spread, and they made us a part of everyone, even you.

I would like for my distant circles to know who I became, maybe I’ll try a bit harder now, but if I can’t, I hope that they understand that the memories, the laughs and the adventures we had still ring inside me.


Lost Letters: Has the hand-written letter died?

Feather pen set of abstract colour




With apologies for my penmanship, I offer a transcription:

Let me start by expressing my gratitude to you, all of you, followers and visitors alike, for reading my blog. It is an important endeavor for me, but it is your thoughtfulness over its content that gives it meaning. Please know that the effort of your attention in the midst our crowded lives is recognized and gratefully remembered.

Not long ago, if someone complimented you saying, “You write beautifully”, you could never be sure whether they were speaking of your writing ability or your penmanship. The art and use of the hand-written letter has drifted into the realms of the rare and the novel, but they are no more obsolete than is a handshake, a smile, an embrace or a whisper.

I grump about the various forms of digital communication, though I know they have their place in filling the need for rapid and easy information exchange in an accelerating society. Yet, they needn’t take our souls. We needn’t succumb to the folly that they are worthy vestals for ALL of our necessary expression. They are not. Never before in history have people been more interconnected, and more distant.

The hand-written letter is more than what is imparted through words; it is a visceral expression. We hold the very page that was writ; our hands touch the hand that held it, touch the ink and stroke of the original thoughts as they were laid down, once and forever unique, and intended for us alone.

The written word is now an ancient and indelible part of our collective nature. The very act of putting pen to blank paper to share our consciousness with another is a sacred and personal thing, each stroke writing through time directly into the consciousness of our singular intended. Our words are precious and weighed, deeper and more considered, our imagination is applied to how the listener will hear our words, rather than how we need to be heard. The writer becomes the reader, and this empathy engenders a truth and eloquence that transcends the common.

The reader sees not just the words, but also the course of their flowering, blotches and cross-outs, the hold marks that betray a carefully chosen word, the shifts in angle of line and gaps between words that reveal a passage of time, these things remove the infallibility of the processed word, and makes us human. Notes and flourishes, the depth and crease of line, the marginal excursions of artful presence convey infinitely more character and meaning than clean and corrected type ever can.

The effort, the time and expense of a hand-written note adds to its value, and tells the reader that they are special and unique; that they mean more to you than a “like” or a “comment”, that they are more than a “follower”. Show me a person who reads a hand-written letter, then tosses it into the trashcan. No, we save them. We cherish them, and rightfully so.

This is NOT a hand-written letter. (so you thought you were so clever all this time? Ha!) This is a digital facsimile of a hand-written letter that still sits on my desk, and this is a blog, a digital communication tool. Pardon my slight-of-hand, but I wanted to intrigue you, and if I could, to incite you to hand-write someone who is special to you, and instead of telling them so, you can prove it.