When I was coming-of-age, the Civil Rights movement was in full swing. People were in the streets protesting the war in Vietnam. Flower children were spreading a doctrine of peace and love. I, like many of my generation, had great hopes that the world would become a better place and that we'd be able to leave that better world to our children. We couldn't have been more wrong.
A forced stint in the military, rampant inflation, a delusional turning back of the clock, a celebration of greed, a misunderstood collapse of an "enemy", and one crueler war than the previous one have taken their toll. Since that time, it's been a small step forward and a big step back, and it would seem we're picking up the pace as well.
Wages for normal, working people have stagnated, inflation has been brought under nefarious control, many of the social programs instituted back then are being dismantled, there's been a massive increase in the number of refugees on the move, more people are dying of hunger every year, income equality has become obscene, the environment is polluted, the planet it getting hotter faster than we can do anything about it, but it's harder and harder to find anyone who really cares.
Oh sure, I have to answer to my kids -- and rightfully so -- since they're all of age and I taught them to speak their minds and ask uncomfortable questions. I believe I got at least that much right. What troubles me more, however, are their children, and those of my own siblings and their kids just making their dramatic, but welcome entry onto the world stage. What about them? I envisioned them then; I know them now. And there are days I simply hang my head in shame.
While I've never been a top-echelon optimist, I've always (most often, secretly) been a hopeful person. It wasn't solely up to me whether "things" turned out or didn't, but I have to ask myself nevertheless whether there was anything I could have done better, harder, more determinedly, more effectively to have possibly made those coming-of-age dreams come true. I've come to the conclusion that there were lots and lots of things I could have done but didn't. But I've also come to recognize that far too many of my one-time compatriots -- brothers- and sisters-in-arms, as we liked to style ourselves then -- simply gave up.
When I see them and hear from them these days, it becomes clear how helpless they feel, how hopeless they've become, how defeated they are inside, and they do everything to prevent that anyone see that. Oh sure, some of them -- and not an insignificant number, I might add -- went over to what we might call the "dark side". They're still my friends and acquaintances. After all, "there, but for the Grace of G-d go I". And it saddens me all the more.
What I miss most of all about those halcyon days of light and hope is the feeling of sharing, of camaraderie, of shared hope, of shared faith, of being-in-it-together. How did Thoreau put it? "Things don't change, we change." He's got a point, I'll admit, but it's only a partial one.
The dream was real. The implementation left a whole lot to be desired. We were many then, and now we're few. And even though that dream remains unfulfilled, it was the right dream to have -- then, and now.
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