A HANDLE ON MY GENERATION
by Doris O'Brien
At a time when even the Man in the White House anoints his favorites
with pet monikers, it is embarrassing to acknowledge that my own contemporaries belong to a nameless generation.
We were born sometime between the mid 1920’s and the early 1940’s
into a world struggling through massive depression, followed by a
war of global proportions. In time, we found ourselves further
marginalized by being squeezed between two iconic powerhouses: The Greatest Generation, admired for its selfless sacrifices, and The
Baby Boomers, envied for their selfish excesses.
Some have facetiously pegged us “The Sandwich Generation,” not
because we were raised on Wonder Bread, but because, more than any
preceding generation, we felt the pull of familial obligations in
opposing directions. On the one hand, we were expected to administer
to our aging parents, who were the initial recipients of modern medicine’s gift of longevity. On the other, we nurtured our
children, who were often less compliant and more reliant than we were.
Obligation was the byword of our generation. Assuming we’re still
around, we continue, in general, to hold up our end of life’s
bargain. By and large, we vote, volunteer, and make an effort to stitch together the shifting fabric of society. We were too young
to serve in World War II and barely recognized for having fought and died in a so-called "police action” on the frozen plains of Korea.
In simple terms, we are a forgotten generation that waged a
forgotten war. Those returning from that conflict unassumingly
picked up the strands of their daily and somewhat traditional existence. Nobody booed or spat on them as they eased back,
without hoopla, into the folds of regular life, expected, as usual, to strive and be quiet about it.
When my mother died a few years ago at age 101, I found among her accumulated papers a half-century-old bill for my college
tuition. The document had grown as fragile and worn as its keeper. I was stunned to discover that my parents had arranged to
pay my fees on a monthly basis, meticulously calculating,
penciling in, and subtracting my scholarship award.
This discovery illustrated a simple truth: the rude reversal of
fortune in the late 1920’s— whether from the stock market crash,
the Dust Bowl disaster, or Hitler’s madness — knocked many of our parents into an economic hole for a score of years. In their
constant scramble to climb back, they were buoyed by the idea that
their offspring might find life easier. Even as children, a sense
of gravitas settled on us to recognize their sacrifices by
realizing their hopes.
Hard times kept our generation relatively small, a demographic
that worked in our favor as we entered the promising job market
in the’50s. Armed with a work ethic and an unlikely sense of
optimism, we made things happen. Yet even to this day, we are
criticized by subsequent generations for having served in roles traditionally expected of us. Most men embraced the responsibilities of being the family breadwinner. Women generally
married early and raised children before returning to school or
the workplace. While most of us were teachers, nurses or secretaries, some women of our generation made significant cracks in
the metaphorical glass ceilings of other careers.
We were not big on public displays of affection — or disaffection.
Few marched in protest rallies. Or experimented with drugs. Or
practiced Free Love. Or wandered off to the fringes of society to
find ourselves. Those were cultural rites of passage made affordable later. We were not pampered; our pleasures were simple. It is irrelevant, in retrospect, to bemoan a childhood void of
electronic wonders when our parents could likely not have afforded
them anyway!
At my fifteenth Wellesley reunion, I was in the audience with other
alumnae when then Massachusetts Senator Robert Brooke delivered the
commencement address to the Class of ’69. He was one of the few
African-Americans in Congress then, and one of even fewer Black
Republicans. After the senator concluded his remarks, a class representative rose and delivered a withering attack on what she
perceived as his flawed vision of the world. The student
spokesperson was Hillary Rodham. While her generation cheered,
mine gasped in disbelief, our precepts of mannerly behavior clearly violated.
It’s probably too late and not all that important — to give our
generation an official name. For the purposes of consumer
targeting, we might be lumped together loosely as “the affluent old.” Every remaining one of us is on Social Security, perhaps the
last generation for which the system will truly prove “secure.” I think we deserve that much. After all, we are a
generation that, even without a catchy handle, managed to make our
way in an increasingly troubled world.