347 Days of Change: Raised in the 70’s

Were you raised in the 70’s? Apparently, my year of birth is now called “Generation Jones” ~ sandwiched between the Gen X and the Boomers.

Eckhart Tolle & Unknown artist of Image

It’s all fodder for dumb conversations about how we were raised so advertisers know how to market to us.

I’ll never forget my first invite to join AARP. Whew! That was a bee sting.

Or that first time a middle aged male was agressively rude to me AFTER he also cut me off while pulling into the same gas station ~ so much for those flirty people.

See, middle aged women … ahem, Gen. Jones … are getting dumped on like we’re all middle managers.

We’re all aging but some are trying to “reverse” us ~ as if we’re not enough.

Others are telling us to prepare for death, as if we don’t have another forty years (or more) to look forward to.

The celebrity ladies are working on keeping their 20 year old bodies as if that’s the line between career or not. How horrible that is.

When celebrities do something, there is a trickle down effect that hits rock hard in the solar plexus of Main St.

Take a look at every company, organization and educational system images they post online.

Everyone of them is scrambling to be sure to include a diverse rainbow of color, but rarely are we seeing anyone with silver hair OR< bigger bodies.

Why?

Because while we as a culture have focused on ‘bringing people together’ we are tearing ourselves apart.

The hive is still compartmentalized. Just … in a different way.

The thing is, we’ve also been on the planet through all of this before ~ multiple times over.

Do you think the Queen of England is impressed with any USA President? How many has she seen come and go?

There is a statement that says something like,

“The older we get, the more unimpressed we are by something”

That is true.

The same is true for those of us who lived through trauma.

When everyone else is UP IN ARMS ~ we are deciding if it’s worth it to toss in our opinion when in truth?

We will choose peace over an opinion every time.

I’m at 11 Presidents.

11 eras of war, drama, fighting, slaps-heard-round-the-world and the like.

That’s 11 eras of post trauma growth ~ self awareness ~ development of grit ~ the building of resilience ~ a decision to become whole post a life time of trying to fight against injustice.

Five ~ almost Six ~ decades of working on getting misogyny, racism, sizing, sexism out of my brain.

That’s 696 months old filled with the knowledge and experience to allow myself permission to have an opinion based on something.

The newbie “experts” on TikTok don’t get to take that away from you ~ just because they say they do.

The fetuses on the internet may be creative, but they don’t have our permission to tell us how we are going to live our lives.

These new enlightened folks don’t get to tell us that we don’t get a say because they decided to navigate the internet as experts in their fields.

Most of us ~ my cohort and peers ~ have a narrative that includes knowing when to put up boundaries and when to walk away.

We are the generation who navigated survival by playing outside ALL day long.

We drank from the hose, and ran around our neighborhoods.

We figured out how to live on our own by getting beat up a few times. *some metaphorically/some literally*

The world has this thing that gives us all a platform.

Some of us ~ aren’t too interested in it. We don’t need to be on a stage to feel seen. We aren’t trying to become “internet famous” for no particular skill set or something interesting to say.

Others are feeling quite entitled to just say, or do whatever the hell they want.

We survived the first wave of polyester; sitting backward in the trunk of a station wagon; and dropping our bomb pop ice cream on the ground, then holding it up to God to get the germs off.

We ran at full speed, barefoot on cement, ripping the top half of our toe off, then getting right back up.

We were the first generation in the century to give a shit about the health of trees. I once got smashed right in the face with a big stick because I was protecting a tree from the neighborhood bully. Split my lip right open.

Some of us were fortunate (or insightful) enough to have everything handed to us, so we could have a step into a financially secure life ~ working was optional for many of my high school friends, after they landed financially savvy mates for life. They became ladies who lunch.

Not me. I took the road not paved like an adventurer. That walk in the woods was more of a hike straight up the perils of Mount Everest. I learned everything the hard way. I have internal scars to show for it. A few external scars as well.

Life was not easy for me. Or, millions of others just like me. Once upon a time, I kept my eating disorder to myself, ’cause I was so embarrassed by it. Right along with the other more hard to understand experiences.

We didn’t talk about it, because we were trauma bonded to the idea that somehow, we were, “asking for it”.

So today, when I see young professional women tell other women that they don’t have the right to an opinion, I am sad.

Sad for both sets of women.

Particularly if the person telling the women to shut up, and stay out of the conversation, is coming from another woman.

Our whole lives were peppered with abuse. I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to tell me to shut up, sit down, and take it ~ ever again.

I don’t care what any of you call the generations.

It’s abundantly clear that some of every generation never had to “survive” a part or whole life ~ and it shows.

Think about that for a while.

KH

@happinessnoir

@inkhoneypub

Me?

Happiness is knowing that we don’t have to jump in or share because we cherish our peace over their drama. But, when we are passionate enough, then we will absolutely stand up for what we believe in.

I’m focused ONLY on Joy ~ Cats ~ Love ~ Savoring ~ Simplicity ~ Laughter ~ Aesthetic beauty.

To express one’s opinion on today’s social media is to invite in the trolls, bullies, and other assorted violence that I spent the past many years trying to heal from.

No thanks. Y’all can keep your TikTok scream fest. These days, that bomb pop is staying down. It’s not worth the calories. No cheap bits for me. 🙂


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