the anti-gen Y

I just read this post on Bitch magazine's blog that raises some interesting and serious qualms against the terms Generation Y and Millenials (terms I often use here) and their actual meanings vs. their purported meanings. The author rightly identifies these terms as having little to no sociological or demographic value - as they tend to leave out vast numbers of non-white, non-middle-class 18-26-year-olds; but instead, she recognizes these terms and their associated (near implicit for some) meanings as being entirely contrived for marketing or economic purposes. So what? Well the problem is that these terms are largely unchallenged and undergoing mass appropriation and replication, utilized by one specific, yet powerful group of this generational class - the one with the most access to technology, the one with the most college degrees, the one with the broadest networks of profitable social capital. As it so often seems to be, the term is driven and powered by the exact group that it is representative of, however incomplete that representation may be.

Why do we only ever hear about student debt load and the plight of college grads who are moving back to the safe haven of Mom and Dad's suburban oasis? What about those who never made it to college in the first place? Who don't have the option to lean on their families, because these families are every bit as financially strapped (if not more so) than they are? What about young adults who, by virtue of culture, religion or upbringing, have different values or a different relationship to technology than those which defines the Millennial archetype? 

 These are all valid concerns and I can easily recognize my compliance with the problem as someone with a close familiarity to racial and cultural homogeneity (less somewhat with class). The most troublesome in my eyes is that last question regarding technology. I often read about how the Internet has become a tool to level the playing-field for the modern worker, and its potential to enact a near democratization of job markets, with the idea that age, gender, race, and especially geography no longer act as strong factors for hiring and recruitment, just as long as someone has aptly demonstrated the required skills. Of course, this leaves out one other important category: class. So it seems the tremendous scope of technology/social media and its inherent potential for creating economic opportunities, fostering collaboration and network-building, establishing an online presence and personal brand will be completely futile in terms of democratizing the playing fields if it is not actually accessible or transmutable to the anti-Gen Y - that group of young adults who did not grow up with computers or laptops and may never 'catch up' to its generational counterparts who did, whether because of economic circumstances or other tangential circumstances.
For me, this all points to the need for being explicit in my use of such terms, and resist the urge to fall into the myth of Gen Y homogeneity; while encouraging the promulgation of a more sociologically sound definition that can be made more useful to generational analysis and forecasting.

(belated) mother's day happy's

Happy Mother's Day (a day late, but would you expect anything different from me?) to my mama. Thanks for my dark eyebrows and my tiny ears. Thanks for my big feet and lovely penmanship. Thanks for my goofy humor and my quietude. Thank you for my steady composure and subtle strength. Thank you for my gracefulness and ability to keep my chin up, even in murky water.

Thank you for being you, so that I could become me.

free pass

Oooh I do love me these Wednesday mornings. It's like drawing one of those Monopoly cards that tells you to pass Go and collect $200. I get a free pass through midweek. Delicious.

Ils sont tres magnifiques, les mercredi. See? I love them so much I want to talk in gramatically-incorrect French to them.

faking it

Which of these bathing beauties do you think is faking it? (Answer: All of them)

When I was thirteen, I imagined myself as a sophisticated, put-together, well-spoken sixteen-year-old. When I was sixteen, not quite as sophisticated or put-together as I'd hoped, I envisioned the twenty-year-old me: stylishly brazen, with a bright red pocketbook and nails and toes painted to match. At twenty, my hair still frizzed on top, toothpaste still crusted in the corner of my mouth, and I almost never had an umbrella when I needed one. But, I just knew at twenty-three, I would finally have stopped leaving the house five minutes late, with mismatched socks and unhemmed pants that I tripped on and ripped as a consequence. 

I'm twenty-three. And still... 
On the days I manage to wash my hair, its ends are sticking out like a confused compass pointer by noon. My toenails seem to grow at the pace of a super-weed, and I am continuously losing all three sets of my nail-clippers. I rarely have a pen on me when someone asks for one, and if I do, it's stenciled with the name of a company like "Enemas R Us".  I'm messy, unorganized, distracted, fumbling; and the days wherein through some miracle, I actually have an air of somebody who has got it together, there can only be one explanation. I'm faking it.

And I know I’m not the only one doing this. A recent conversation between myself and the other interns at the company which shall not be named – a company that prides itself on being the most stylish accessory for the quintessential urban-girl-about-town - affirmed my long-held suspicions. I found that we were all faking something: our technical know-how, our fashion sensibilities, our ability to juggle multiple jobs or internships, our mastery of local trends and hot spots. None of us cared too much for writing pieces on cupcakes, or thigh-tightening techniques; but we were all willing to, even if it meant faking something in the process. The collective sigh that was released upon admitting this was indicative that women are far too good at keeping this a secret. Because the most refreshing part was that we could all actually admit it to each other, and that alone, somehow made the pretending part less shameful. In fact, it erased the shame entirely. 
I know the image that we’re working to project via the company and our little articles is fantasy and entirely unrealistic. No woman can possibly have it all together as flawlessly and effortlessly as magazines, tv shows, and movies depict. And if it looks as though she does, it only mean she has mastered the art of faking it. And if she's a master, I'd do well to get to talking to her. 
I often write, on this blog and in real life, about being authentic in your work, being honest in your communications with yourself and others. But when it comes to this, I've got no problem putting on an act. Why is that? Well for one, we all do it in one way or another. If not at work, then in a relationship, or elsewhere. We are always working to make ourselves seem slightly better; more intelligent, more productive, more exciting that we actually are. 

It’s fun to imagine ourselves as having it all together, even if we never will. Pretending for a night that we are as well-dressed, perfectly-heeled, and immaculately-coiffed as a Glamour-girl is something like the grown-up version of dress-up. So while I could sit around lamenting the fact that at age twenty-three, I still can't get my hair to fall just right - and it probably never will; I am perfectly content to get by with faking it. 

the words

"Dont bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."
---Franz Kafka

This one's gotta stew for a while; but it's gonna be delicious once it does.

oh very young

Jonah Lehrer wrote today on the interesting phenomenon of creative peaks across individual life spans, centuries, and entire scientific/creative fields. He descibes the quantum mechanics revolution during the early 20th Century which flourished because of, and with the talent of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed scientists who were far exceeding the achievements of their older counterparts:

After a few years in the academy, however, Simonton says that "creators start to repeat themselves, so that it becomes more of the same-old, same-old." They have become insiders, invested in Newtonian mechanics; that is what they know and that is what they believe in. It's only the impetuous youth, those marginal figures without tenure or grants of their own, who properly appreciate the anomalies of the subatomic.

This got me to thinking of the theory's applicability, on a far lesser scale, to the modern workplace and how young people in their first and second jobs, despite what many would argue, might be considered prime agents for organizational innovation, creative production, and even leadership. As a result of their "outsider status", brand-new workers have an advantageous view, the ability to recognize inefficiencies and opportunities for change in areas where a seasoned professional might still be practicing "business as usual". The same ideas were shared by Rosetta Thurman in her discussion on generational change in the nonprofit sector. Her suggestion to the Baby-Boomers on how to handle the overwhelming emergence of Gen Y to the scene: Let them lead.

This seems to be an idea that's talked about often, but put into practice only very rarely. But I see so many around me eager to get their hands dirty, to move things around and stir the pot, if only because we see how stagnant it is. Where older generations might help out is by taking notice of the younger generation's ignorance to worn-out models and systems, and rather than deeming it a liability, see it as a positive and provide the learned guidance that will encourage the innovation we're already primed to produce.

(Un?)healthy obsessions

It was the grand re-opening of one of Seattle's oldest and finest booksellers last weekend. The roommates and I made two treks down, once to enjoy the free food and block party celebration and again a few days later to actually peruse the stacks. The place smelled of rich, chocolaty cedar and fresh, untouched pages. It was deliciously intoxicating, and it's safe to say I got drunk off the smells. A half hour later, the stack of books I was carrying had reached the tip of my nose.
Call it springtime ambition - but more like blind ambition. I don't have the time to immerse myself in all these books - especially those plenteous works by Sontag and Wallace. Neither do I really have the money to spend. But I just couldn't say no to their firm, smooth covers, their inky pages with fibers like fine-grained sand. And now, I'm knee-deep in the sand, five of them to be exact.
Well, I tell myself, there's no hurry. They're not going anywhere now.