"It's a Generational Thing"

Written by Audrey Brazeel, Author of the newly published book: Generation Nanny

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“That’s gotta be a generational thing”. My father mumbles in my direction. 

We are waiting in line for our coffee, and he’s referring to the man standing in front of us. A kid in his mid-20’s sporting the newest trend, no-socks with dress shoes. My 60 year old father can not comprehend this fashion statement, and I certainly don’t try to defend it. I chuckle to myself, actually agreeing with my father’s statement for once. It is a generational thing.

Usually, my father uses this statement when he can’t make sense of something I, or other millennials, do but typically it is used in response to more serious topics. In those instances, I stealthy roll my eyes and shrug it off - not worth the fight - especially when it comes to politics.

Me: Women need equal pay to men. 

Him: That’s a generational thing.

Me: Healthcare should be free for all. 

Him: That’s a generational thing.

Me: Immigrants need a better pathway to citizenship. 

Him: That’s a generational thing.

He shoos away the conversation with simplistic, but rational, reasoning. Rational, because he is probably right - it likely is a generational difference that can explain some of our opposition. Not just in the case of the no-sock-man, but in every case from our beliefs about the economy, social services, cost of college tuition, immigration. I can go on. 

You name it, my father and I have discussed it, and boy are we on different sides of the isle. During one of our coffee-dates the conversation turns heated and I get his classic comeback: “It’s a generational thing, Audrey, I don’t want to get into it.”

This time I decided to ask him“Why? Why, is it a generational thing?”

There are moments when I know he doesn’t have to use this statement as his conversational escape route. His years of corporate professional life, of raising two (very) outspoken daughters, and being married to my mother (a public school teacher) for over 30 years. He can hold his own in defending his political beliefs but I notice that when things get too close to home - too relevant - too relatable - too emotional - he bails.

I thought this article was going to turn into an explanation, a rebuttal, or perhaps a dissection of the millennial generation as to defend “my people” and make more of my points to my father. But now, at a time when unity is key to moving forward, all I want is to understand him.

So, I dive into my father’s story. Bridging the gap of an isle that’s as wide as the sky can only be done through listening and learning. I wish to know what parts of his generational experience inform his current opinions so that maybe, I can uncover the tiniest sliver of commonality that might exist between us.

My father grew up in a military family, his father flying planes for the U.S. Airforce in the Vietnam War. A military brat, he lived all over the United States from the time he was born in ‘61 to the mid 80’s. He lived in Texas, Arizona, New York, Arkansas, and his favorite, the Big Island of Hawai’i. Following in his father’s footsteps he joined the Air National Guard after college, had his first daughter in 1989 while flying prisoners in the Bosnian war overseas. Leaving the Airforce in the early 90’s, he became a successful Commercial Airline Pilot, and first the first time, voted against party lines in 1996. He deeply regrets this decision which explains his pledge to “never vote outside his party lines again” which is exactly what turned our coffee-date, into more of a coffee-debate.

My father raised two daughters in a middle class suburb in Colorado, and according to him, his life plan was on track until September 11, 2001. Though his career may have survived the bailouts of the airline industry at that time, his life-plan had been abruptly interrupted by economic challenges he had never anticipated.

These unforeseen financial hardships have influenced the way he feels about government, about social issues, about hardship, and about being an American. Born in 1961, my parents are considered “cuspers”, straddling the years between the last of the Boomers and the beginning of Generation X. Like me, they grew up in houses their parents owned, went to good public schools, worked summer jobs, and went to college. Unlike me, they were never introduced to the spectrum of gender, sexuality, white privilege, or encouraged to explore their own identity beyond their suburban goals. They chose majors that were directly tied to jobs and started working right after graduating college. They never questioned whether they had a job waiting for them when school was over, they just did. 

My parents’ roadmap to success had been followed perfectly: finish college, get a job, get married, buy a house, have a baby, save for college, send babies to college, work for a good company and finally, reach retirement.

Their oldest daughter (me), whose college they paid for (almost) in full, graduated in 2011 during what we now call “the Great Recession”. I, along with my friends, were eager to begin our careers in business, engineering, communications, anthropology, etc. but instead we’d go into survival-mode finding any job that was available. Much of us used our expensive college degrees to become nannies, Lyft drivers, and waiters and a fair amount (well, me and many of my close girlfriends) moved back in with our parents for a period of time. 

That wasn’t part of the plan for anyone, especially my parents who thought they had become empty nesters until their adult daughter moved back in.

I lived under their roof, on and off, until I was about 24. My book, Generation Nanny tells my messy millennial story, giving narrative to the social, economic, and political conditions that caused my generation to be considered “the burn out generation” coined by Buzzfeed writer and author, Anne Helen Peterson. I’ve probably had over 46 jobs, if you count the house sitting, the dog walking, the nannying, the event staffing agencies, the substitute teaching, and that one time I helped an old man throw a dinner party for 15 people. At 31, my resume should be about 5 pages long and yet, I am still waiting to begin what they call “a career”, in something.

My professional life, post grad, exceedingly frustrates my father.

For him, where there should be predictability, there is chaos. He pivots between blaming my liberal arts college for not forcing students to pick a specific job before we declare a major, and blaming Millennials for their lack of “real world skills”.  He might be right on the first one, I had no idea what I would do with an Anthropology and Ethnic Studies degree; I certainly wasn’t going to dig up dinosaur bones for a living. The second one is wrong, and he knows it. It’s not my skills that are lacking, but rather the real world lacked the jobs to utilize those skills.

As my father approaches retirement, he is angry that I may not have the same opportunity one day. My generation partially stripped of pensions, 401Ks, and social security benefits makes him yearn for “the good ol’ days”. Our generational differences will always clash a little, lacking full understanding of where one another’s pain points originate from. 

His Generation is frustrated that my generation has gone off-book, not following the plan and making our own road map to success. But what his generation and my generation know best is how to recover and redirect ourselves to keep moving forward.

We both have mastered “the art of the re-route”.

We have found that arriving “on time” to our destinations is simply an idea fabricated by society. 

Rerouting is a survival technique. It is what humans do when something is standing in the way of our hopes, desires, and dreams for the future. Unexpected turbulence, planes waiting on the tarmac, a delay, or worse - weather, all might postpone or delay this trip we call life. 

In some ways, no one knows this better than my father. He is a pilot after all, and rolling with the punches is what he does best. September 11th didn’t hijack his flying career. The loss of his 401K never stood in the way of planning for a “comfortable” retirement. Taking time off during critical career-advancing years to seek mental health help, never stopped him from climbing the corporate ladder and now, preparing to retire with honor.

My Father prides himself on how he has completed all of the steps of adulthood but what he doesn’t mention is the re-routes life has required of him to get there. Succumbing to taking out bank loans, cashing in stocks, and refinancing his home. Those things were never part of the plan. These re-routes are ones that hurt his ego, make him angry at the government, and at 60 years old, these are the re-routes that cause him to take the easy way out of conversations.

“It is, what it is” as he says. Disillusionment is painful.

Our generational differences may be plentiful but our similarities as human beings are overflowing. Each of us knowing that internalizing reroutes as personal failures is just self-inflicting harm. My father and I give grace to one another when times are rough, help one another bounce back after tragedy, and truly do have one anothers’ best interest in mind.

Both, frustrated with the systems that have failed us, we both want to see change for the better.

Millennials and the generations that come after, have been given a gift. The gift of invitation. Invited to explore one’s identity, invited to challenge authority, and invited to publicly, and proudly, re-route. Siri literally tells us when we’re re-routing and we follow her directions blindly, knowing we will end up eventually, where we planned to go. Our parents never had Siri when they were our age, re-routing their perfect suburban plan behind closed doors - they felt ashamed when forced to take out loans they never planned to get and absorbed the faults of the world as their own.

I wonder what life would be like if my parents’ generation had been invited to explore more, go off-roading, take a side street to their destination. It occurs to me that this might be why my father is so resistant to engaging with me about the political issues my generation are most concerned with. The amount of rerouting my father has witnessed me do has been painful for him as it has been for me at times. Experiencing every one of my let downs as his own, he hurts for-me, and for my generation, knowing we have been dealt lousy economic cards.

He is tired of watching the struggle and it’s easier to take the easy way out. This, IS a generational thing. 

He listens to me ramble, he challenges my thinking, and he opens my eyes to see a different side of the picture. Knowing his story, allows me to see past his resistance and into his heart. He notices my unwillingness to give up, and I notice there is willingness to finally let me take the lead.

As my father and I navigate our relationship under the dichotomy of American politics today, it becomes our priority to preserve our relationship over proving our points to one another. These conversations have become taxing, difficult, and sometimes unbearable for both of us and we have agreed to the following:

1. Have a teachable spirit - be patient with one another and listen actively.

2. Choose your battles wisely - some just aren’t worth fighting

3. Sometimes, it’s ok to Queen Elsa and “let it go”

Our differences somehow complete the bigger picture, that we are much stronger together as a father and a daughter than a Republican and Democrat.

As generations of people reroute their plans to reach their final destinations, we can all agree on the hope we have for the future of our families. We are more than separate generations of people - we are families, partners, and communities traveling together, having coffee together, and of course, judging people’s fashion choices together.

We can do this… right?

So, I just published my first book… during a pandemic… yeah, definitely didn’t see that one coming. 

Book stores are closed, libraries are functioning like McDonalds drive-thrus, and the only way to connect with readers, followers, and a community, is through a computer screen (which I have had enough of lately).

Once the virtual confetti had settled after my zoom book-launch party in July, I felt like I had hit a wall. I had burnt myself out on social media - editing and proofreading - zooming - more zooming. All I wanted to do was run out of my house (without a mask), hug people, talk to people, and forget there was a pandemic going on. There were protests marching down the street that I wanted to join, but in fear of COVID-19, of police backlash, and the potential danger of such large and energized groups, my fear got the best of me.

I stayed home.

I had envisioned doing readings at small indie bookstores surrounded by moms with their strollers, young women in their mid-20’s, and a few random college kids. I had planned to conduct resume writing workshops to help young nannies explore their futures and learn how to communicate their value on paper. I had planned to have at least 4 parties with way more than 10 people at each gathering, and a cross-country book tour (that I couldn’t have afforded anyway). 

Most of these plans were not going to happen. But, I did get to Arkansas to see my family and in August I retraced my nanny steps in Denver, Colorado. Working from home since mid-March, this trip was needed and I was hoping to gain some, if any, traction promoting my new book.

While in Denver, I attempted to get my book on the shelves of the infamous Tattered Cover book store, only to learn they had paused all typical programming for local authors due to COVID-19. Their doors shut, and shelves untouched since April, book stores had been hit especially hard by the pandemic this summer. I also learned that donating a book to any of the Denver Public Libraries required an official trip to the DPL headquarters downtown, just to drop a book in their book return. This task seemed underwhelming and out of the way.

I had dreamed of watching a librarian reach across the desk and take my book from my hands with a smile. Watching them walk back to the local authors section and place it on the shelf. I’m pretty sure it’s more complicated than that to donate a book to the library, but regardless, my visualizations of the community building, the smile exchanging, the storytelling and the connecting, was not happening the way I wanted.

I was at a promotional, dead-end and feeling discouraged. I can’t wait to share my book with the world, yet, the world was basically taking a nap.

Then, I heard of Book Bombing.

When I was a nanny in Denver, I found it advantageous to join the neighborhood Facebook groups where I was working. Joining groups for West City Park, Whittier, Cole, and 5 Points. I am still in these Facebook groups almost 5 years later, because I am nostalgic that way … like a hoarder, but I hoard facebook groups. Don’t judge.

Someone from the Colorado Author’s League posted something about Local Colorado Authors “Book Bombing” the Free Little Libraries around town as a way to promote, and give back to the community during the pandemic. It was the perfect thing to do.

While book bombing the Free Little Libraries took me down memory lane, it also allowed for me to reflect on my part as a citizen in our new world.

When I was a nanny, I was always looking for something to do to pass the time with the babies.

They don’t call it “taking a stroll” for nothing - one doesn’t stroll if they have someplace to be, and thus my strolls sometimes lasted a few hours. Freely wandering, playing music from my phone in the stroller cup holder, these were my favorite summer moments.

The Free Little Libraries had been started in 2009 by a man named Todd Bol in Hudson, Wisconsin as a little tribute to his mother. Since then, Free Little Libraries have been built all across the U.S. encouraging those passing by to leave a book and take a book; a reciprocal exchange amongst strangers.

The double stroller we bought off craigslist that summer barely fit on the narrow sidewalks. The wheels getting caught in the crevices, where the cement had cracked years ago letting weeds sprout through. I would start in West City Park and head North towards MLK, a couple laps around the track at Manuel High School would always rock the babies to sleep. The houses ranged from old Victorians painted in easter egg colors, some in original condition and a few recently revamped. In 2015, The modern boxy houses with the rooftop patios had only just begun to pop up and now, returning 5 years later, they could be spotted on every block. Funky fences, punny political signs (BYEDON was my favorite) and of course the Free Little Libraries.

Free Little Libraries were scattered about the neighborhoods of Denver, each one giving me something to look forward to every time I turned down a different street.

Some of these were old mailboxes and repurposed birdhouses, handcrafted by Denver-ites looking to give a welcoming touch to their front yards. Grasping the tiny knob, opening the miniature door, I loved peering into what seemed to be a motel for books. Various titles were just passing through town, staying a few nights before moving on to their next destination. They don’t have to mess with a formal check in or check out process, they get to come and go as they please. When the universe calls them to a new bedside table or travel bag, they just leave. It’s sweet to see when snacks and fresh fruit are also left for the taking amongst the books. I could tell someone knew when to expect the snacks because they were always gone the next day.

In the past few weeks transients, urban travelers, and the homeless had been camping out near the Denver capital. A month before, Civic Center Park had been filled to the brim with tents and makeshift shelters; the area was a mixture of protestors and people with nowhere else to go. The biggest shelter downtown, the Denver Rescue Mission, had closed its doors unable to accommodate the number of people needing beds and meals while ensuring their safety. The camp was cleared out right before my trip, displacing campers to various corners of the city off of Park Avenue and up and down 14th street. Seeing this, as we do in Austin as well, is more than an eye sore that many people complain about - it’s humanity on display. People in their cars drive by complaining, wondering, worrying, crying, or shaking their heads in confusion of not knowing what to do to help.

I felt worried, worried for the city I grew up in, sad for the people who were in so much need. I woke up early one morning and delivered some cases of water bottles to a few slumbering campers. It was the least I could do knowing they’d be outside in 96 degree heat that day. Fires burning in the mountains caused for the air quality to plummet, my throat was dry and sore all week, the invisible ash was everywhere, the heat stuck under the smoke clouds that hovered over the city.

Revisiting my old stomping grounds was a cathartic experience for me - dropping off my books at each Free Little Library, I felt a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for life, for shelter, for water, for friendship. Gratitude for the opportunity to give back.

Author, Robin Wall Kimmerer hit the nail on the head when reflecting on her writing as an act of service in her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants.

“for me, writing is an act of reciprocity with the world; it is what I can give back in return for everything that has been given to me.”

I’d like to imagine some of the campers coming across my book at the Free Little Libraries, giving them a momentary mind-vacation from the harsh summer elements. Picked up by new parents, mothers and fathers of small children, babysitters, nannies, and grandparents experiencing this year in isolation. How many walks are being taken right now? How many strolls a day are being clocked during this pandemic? How many books read? How many books written? Never did any of us expect our daily lives to be interrupted so abruptly and in such drastic ways, yet here we are.

As things start to open back up and we embrace our new normal, I hope we never stop strolling. The power of nature, sunlight, trees, and oxygen remind us how precious life is and what it means to be present. As we wait for what’s to come with the upcoming election and the possibilities of a vaccine this is the longest, and strangest, stroll I have ever been on. But what’s getting me through, are doing tiny acts of service. Trying to focus on what we, as individuals, can do for others; because the power of the collective is mighty.

The purpose of these little libraries is to give the public a gift of the common good…

and giving my book away for free, never felt so good.

We fill these little houses with books and in return we get to take one with us. To know that my books are on a journey of their own, gifting people with entertainment, reading my simple nanny stories and endless pondering about life - seems more like a gift for me.

To feel seen and heard - isn’t that the biggest gift of all?