Extremely online people sometimes joke that zoomers are just young boomers, and sometimes that’s unfair, though it does name a certain drift to social and political conservativism among some in that demographic. But even if that’s wildly generalized, every meme carries a kernel of truth, and I can’t unsee this horseshoe as more from this age bracket become my colleagues. There are chaotic tendencies at work that can’t simply be explained by lack of experience: confused communication, sloppy reasoning, and the kind of cavalier attitude to technology that I’ve only ever seen among the olds. It’s baffling. Do they seriously not know how to keep conversations in-thread? Do they not see the value of a well-composed email subject? Do they seriously not know that texting is far more useful for making things immediately actionable than email, especially when there’s already a text chain for that purpose? For all their micromanagement of emojis and number of letters in hiiii, I’m often stumped by their thought process. How did these people get through college?
But, alas, I have a small sample size that may or may not be representative. An even smaller but more hilarious sample to me that’s finally convinced me that zoomers are in fact young boomers emerged from my daily walks. Boomers are the only people who greet others on the sidewalk. I nod and grunt back a good morning but generally avoid eye contact, because this is Seattle, after all. But I’ve now had two zoomers say “hi” out of the blue as I walk past, which seriously throws me off. Don’t get me wrong: I’m (mostly) not complaining. I’m just confused. No one my age does that here.
But here’s the real point of this all: I’ve started to think about my own embodied responses to such interactions and I’m realizing that I’m not “trained” to receive these breakages in civic inattention as “friendly.” I’m immediately on guard, like my very presence is being regarded with suspicion. That “good morning” feels like I’m being tested. I know that’s irrational, but it’s the truth. It takes a lot out of me to crack a smile.
The Tokyo Tower outside and inside Don Quixote. x
All the sniping across generational lines is rarely about those we see on the other side of the train tracks. It’s mostly about ourselves. New habits and norms shake up reality, hopefully in good ways; we’ve had several generations that have taught us to valorize youth rebellion as an engine of social progress. But then there’s the stuff that’s truly alien to us that we never expected to question or deconstruct. When we travel, we expect to experience culture clash, and there too, we’ve had a long time to develop a shared (though not universal) sense of the value of that kind of encounter with difference. But in our own city? On these boring old streets where we walk every day to work? In the office? That’s not where cultural translation is supposed to happen. And yet it does. All the time. And it’s so exhausting.
One of my least favorite discursive formations I often deal with in Seattle is the idea that “trying to help” is somehow in and of itself beautiful and worthy of gratitude. Never mind whether your helper is actually listening to you or has any clue what you’re actually asking for. Never mind if they constantly disrupt the actually helpful processes so that their suggestions might be heard. They’re trying to be helpful, and you just have to grin and bear it.
But my body’s not trained to do that either, so I shut that down and make everyone feel bad, then stew in the sweat of my guilt over not having higher tolerance for nonsense. And so on, and so on.
Well, I’ve been trying to retrain my body. Not because I owe chaotic souls my peace, but because I really value it in mine. And I really value my efficacy. It’s just bad form to be so reactive, like I have no clue why I react. I do. Now for the follow through.