A Theory and a Criticism of a Generation of Non-Conformists

This may seem a little redundant, but at the present time, I feel it necessary to address what may be to some, a culture that lacks refinement, yet propagates the past in an attempt to mimic or yield former art or style as sophistication. Did that thesis statement-esque lead not entice you? Read some fucking scholarly articles. 

...Because we all love Bowie and listen to vinyl records. I know, we're not addicted to anything, but yeah, we've tried a few things... except pot. We smoke a lot of pot, and maybe cigarettes, but maybe not, or maybe too much. And we all play guitar covers of our favorite bands from middle school, or at least know someone who does. And we read Salinger and James, but Henry, not E. L. 

We walk in the park and go to preservations, yet binge-watch television series on Netflix because there's nothing on regular cable t.v. We post photos of our puppies and kitties and American flags and sushi. We want to be real American guys and gals, so we pound $2, 16-ounce cans of PBR, and we don't love IPAs, but if you're cute and 25 and wearing black-rimmed glasses, sure, we'll take one. We’ll just have to add a couple of extra reps at the gym tomorrow—for gains.

We idolize Lana Del Rey, dreadlocks and not identifying with a political party. Gen-X thinks we’re lazy and non-committal; passive; uneducated; unaware. Blasé blah, Gen-X. We learned from them that when the going gets tough, give up. The whole lot of them? Divorced.

We’re active online about issues like Ferguson, but if a meme of a dress pops-up on Twitter, it's all we'll talk about for the weekend. Then it’s, "that Michael Brown case is still a thing?” 

"Oh, there's a picture of Chris Pratt. I love him, he seems so down to earth. Didn't his show just end?”

“Emma Watson can’t act like she knows anything about inner beauty, she’s fucking gorgeous on the outside! What a crock of shit."

It’s an endless ADD feed that we've conceived. It’s all our own creation, but it controls us. 

And bouncing from one timely topic to the next, we still find ourselves hung up on that thing we said when we were drunk, or the look that girl just gave us, or our empty bank accounts, or the things we cannot change. We’re awake all night, whether it be dwelling or drinking, and asleep until 2, and we wanna drink again tonight but we're broke, but we'll see you at the bar anyway, after Taco Bell and a nap.

This is our lifestyle. We’re not original, but we believe ourselves to be. We romanticize the idiosyncratic, that at one time people found shocking, or taboo. We reinvent things that shouldn’t be imitated; they were better left untouched. We venerate the different, the eldritch, in the name of aestheticism. And I cannot ascertain if this is good or not.

Have we twisted history’s Greats to fit our own societal mores' desires, or can we simply not come up with anything unique on our own, because we’re too distracted consuming all of this media, all of the time? To know where you’re going, you have to know where you’ve been, they say… But if we’re redoing what’s already been done, we can’t go anywhere.

We’re all trying to figure out who we are and what we want. And I know who I am. I am a refinement snob. I am better than the pop culture standard set by Justin Bieber and "Twilight." I listen to real artists, like Sinatra and Led Zeppelin. I love the "Three Stooges" and the original "Twilight Zone." But I am not too good for HBO or Lady Gaga. See the contradiction I deny? Enough Taylor Swift, I want more Lorde! These examples have less to do with taste, and more to do with criterion I’ve established.

I know who I am, because I hate that person, and I wish for the life of me I wasn’t that person. She is the least original who claims to be a non-conformist. I am the pauper pretending to be a prince. I too wish for the life of me I had an effective conclusion to my thesis. Yet, in the interest of representing my generations’ value of the avant-garde, I choose to quote the infamous Cary Grant; “Ah, beware of snobbery; it is the unwelcome recognition of one’s own past failings.”

For you, Little Girl

Dearest Child,

You are 7 right now, and this is mostly when your memories will begin. You have a long way to go, my dear, and adulthood isn’t all that you think it’s going to be. Don’t rush it. There will come a time when all you’ll want is to return to mischief in the woods, building forts behind the shed, (you haven’t done that yet, but you will soon.) You’ll miss the plastic jungle gym that you’ll soon grow much taller than, even when it’s replaced by the pool. And enjoy that pool, you’ll move a few years after it’s built to a brand new house with no fence, no pool. Don’t worry, though, you’re not moving too far from your friends, but eventually you’ll understand that the true friends are the ones that stick by you no matter how far away you are.

You and your closest brother will grow apart soon since the baby’s here, and you’ll come together again in a while, but those in-between years are going to be tough. Just remember not to get upset when he kicks your ass, and that’ll end anyway when you get to high school. Forget about the terrible mistakes he’s going to make, because you know they’re not intentional. When you reattach, he’ll ask for advice, and when you realize you don’t know anything, he’ll drop almost anything to help you, often. The doofus that’ll soon strike you with a Wiffle ball bat as you climb down from the tree in the front yard, (yeah! you’ll get to climb that!) will turn back into the kid who ran down the sidewalk to greet you as you hop off the bus, home from your first day of kindergarten. I bet you don’t remember that. (I don’t either.) Except in the future, he’ll be racing up route 81 at 4 in the morning to pick your ass up from jail. 

Those Christmas presents from Santa are really from some non-profit who got in touch with mom, and that’s okay—she’s doing her best. You know, she had to file bankruptcy when she lost your sister, (that’s why dad buys those angels for her every year,) and her hospital stay without insurance drained mom and dad’s accounts. I know you kind-of know all this from the whisper-conversations at the kitchen table, but I want to make it clear that you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Your parents are poor now, but that is going to change in a few years, and when it does, you’ll miss this old lifestyle more than you could imagine. You’ll realize that “poor” has less to do with money and more to do with relationships and possessions and worth. Everything has worth, dear girl. And how you value it establishes its worth. And if you value everything as gold, you’ll be far richer than Oprah, (she’s a billionaire, you’ll learn.)  

Someday, you’ll resent your mom for trying to control your life. Be patient. Then, you’ll be best friends. Appreciate it, because when she breaks your trust and ruins your hope in love, you’ll miss her. She won’t really leave you, but it won’t ever be the same. Tell her you love her, even when you’re mad at each other. Things will be complicated, but you never know what could happen.

Then, dad, you’ll come to butt heads with, and you’ll realize that nothing you do is good enough for him. But that isn’t true. When he asserts after your duet in the 6th grade chorus concert, “you did good, but you could have been louder," know that he only sees your potential. He only wants the best for you. That’s why he works so long and often, and when he unwinds with too much bourbon at the end of the day, understand that his frustration is not with you. You’re too much alike, you and him, and you’ll see one day that what you think is your own inadequacy disappointing him is really his own dissatisfaction with himself.

When cousin Brian tells you that Santa isn’t real, and you still believe for two more years, don’t be ashamed. It’s not the figure so much that’s important, it’s the ability to hope that you’re carrying out. It’s spirit. I’m proud of that. And when he tells you that your parents smoke pot, relax. You’ll end up doing the same, and no matter what you present in your 5th grade D.A.R.E. speech, don’t ever believe that weed is a drug. Alcohol, however is a different story. Be careful. You’ll see. And don’t be so hard on mom for smoking cigarettes, because you don’t know how you’ll cope when you’re her age and have her experiences.

Those girls at the bus stop will continue to torture you; forget what they said about your bandana and your haircut. Let no one tell you your style is anything but exceptional; it’ll save you from vying with timely trends in the future. And in any manner, those bully bitches will develop into your longest best friends. Don’t try so hard to fit-in, you’ll only lose yourself. And when you find her again in, oh, maybe 11 years, you’ll question all the fads that you mimicked along with the crowd.

Appreciate the people that call you Cassandra. You don’t like it now, but when you grow up you’ll long for the respect of someone calling you by your beautiful, serious, full-name.

You’re smart, Cassandra. Oh sorry, Cassie. You’ll go on for several years thinking you’re the smartest 7, 11, 14-year-old you know. Hell, you might be, kid. Then at point, you’ll be one of the smartest people you know. But wayyy later, you’ll figure out that you’re no different from everyone else, and that you’re good at some things, but not excellent at anything. You’re not special, like they told you all throughout school. And that trait, humility, understanding, will save you years of worry or regret or disappointment. Just remember, you’re going to make a lot of promises that you think you’ll keep forever, but you’re going to go back on your word from time to time, and that’s good, because that means you’re gaining perspective. Never stop looking at things from someone else’s point of view. 

You’re going to lose a lot. You’re going to be disappointed and hurt, and scared, and very lonely. It’s not going to be easy for you. You’re going to lose a lot of friends, and that’s okay. Treasure them while you have them; they’ll each teach you so much more about yourself than you could learn on your own. Forgive them when they leave on their own accord. Forgive yourself when you leave them behind. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you don’t make cheerleading in 6th grade; when the kids you thought were friends call you a "whale;" when you get your first “C” in algebra; when your best friend completely ignores you out of the blue with no explanation; when you quit soccer for the musical, and mom says she misses watching you play; when you can’t go away to your first-choice university because dad makes "too much money;" you are innovative. You can cope. You are strong. You are enough for you, and me too.

And you’re going to make a fuck-ton of mistakes, (sorry, that’s not appropriate for a 7-year-old, is it? A lot will change in 16 years, hon,) but you’re not going to regret a single one. Because if you did, you wouldn’t grow up to be me, and even though we’re not the smartest, or the best at anything, or special, we are worth something. I’m not sure what we’re meant for, or who we should be, but you and me, kid? We’re gonna be valuable. Maybe I’ll tell us in another letter when we’re 35 and God only knows what’ll be happening. But I’ll tell ya what, I’ll never forget you. Because you made me, you’re why I’m me, and we’re not special or important or wise or smart, but we are all that we’ve got, and we’re gonna create substance of consequence, relevance, effect. We’re gonna be important and good and all that we can, and if anyone expects anything more or less, then we don’t need ‘em. We’ve got each other. 

Love,

You, in 16 years