When walls fall.

Over coffee this morning, I came across an article in the New Yorker about a far-right conservative influencer.

Photo: James O'Shea

Wikipedia categorizes her as a far-right conspiracy theorist and internet personality. I won't name her here. She receives enough attention and isn't likely to be erased or canceled any time soon. What struck me was her age. She was born in 1993 (two decades after me). Privileged. Physically beautiful. Educated. She is known for peddling misinformation. To her supporters, she is a truth-telling patriot. 

Fascinated, I continued reading and then I hit on it (or at least one of the key ingredients of her makeup). She was eight when 9/11 happened. Had I been eight and not twenty-eight when the twin towers were attacked, would I see the world differently? Would I wrap myself in fear and paranoia, terrified of anyone who doesn't look or sound like me? I would hope not, but I couldn't help but think about the milestones of my own Gen X existence:

>I was born in 1973. Two years later, the Vietnam War ended. My neighborhood would see an influx of refugees from Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. The dads on my block had choice words about our new neighbors. We kids were fascinated, confused, and then fascinated again.

>Cable TV would become deregulated and mainstream in the late 1970s/early 1980s, increasing access to all types of stories. Not always quality storytelling, but certainly a wilder ride than traditional ABC, CBS, and NBC.

>In 1982, I would become obsessed with the song Rock the Casbah by The Clash---a song about a fictionalized ban on Western music (probably not as fictional as they thought). 

>President Reagan's immigration act of 1986 granted amnesty to nearly three million undocumented immigrants who had lived in the U.S. prior to 1982. The dads also had words about this.

>The fall of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, happened during Mr. Samuel's yearbook class. Collectively, we could not believe something so extraordinary had happened AND in our lifetime. How we cheered and cried! We had been obsessed with how AIDS was ravaging the world. This was a glimmer of hope that humanity was going to be okay. 

There are so many, many more cultural (and personal) milestones that shaped me and my generation. I mean, I haven't even mentioned the bikes that allowed us to roam freely. We were born at the end of the Cold War to adults greatly shaped by war. Our unseatbelted, latchkey, roller skating, bike riding histories enable us to see fear for what it is and move forward anyway. Or at least, change the channel. Thank you, HBO.

These cultural moments are important to keep alive--to live and learn; to calibrate the consequences. It’s easy to mentally categorize into bins of good and evil, but life shows us on the daily how nuanced choices and interactions truly are. It’s important to hold up a mirror so that we can get past the simplification. This is one of the reasons writing my own book and publishing with an indie press (thank you Banana Pitch Press) has become so critical to me. This effort is about more than my story. As cancellation culture expands and funding and publication opportunities shrink, it is about not being erased.