Have you ever read a letter in an advice column that was so eerily familiar you suspected yourself of sleep-writing it? That happened to me recently while I was browsing through the latest issue of Hip Mama: I came across a letter asking how the writer should deal with her awesome, intelligent, well-read teenage daughter who seemed to be suffering under the impression that her generation was the first one to discover injustice. And also suffering under the impression that it was her duty to “spread the word” to her poor, benighted family, starting first, as always, with her mom. The author wrote in particular about having her daughter explain the concept of second-wave feminism and white privilege to her—repeatedly, and, for the most part, condescendingly. It was, to use her words, incredibly annoying.
Don’t get me wrong: I have never claimed to be the last word in understanding and tolerance, and I’ll be the first to admit (well, at least in the top ten) that I could use some re-education in some areas. For all that I was a card-carrying (or rather button-wearing) member of the gay/straight alliance as far back as my own high school days, I was still woefully ignorant about anything involving the trans community until my daughter, Clementine, took it upon herself to enlighten me.
And while I do believe that there is such a thing as “white privilege,” I sometimes have to be reminded of that—especially when I’m having one of those days where “privileged” would probably be the very last word I would use to describe myself and my situation.
So yeah, sometimes Clementine has a point. Sometimes I have strayed so far from my radical, hell-raising adolescence that I have forgotten how to feel completely and utterly outraged. But on the other hand, sometimes I really feel like I’m not getting enough credit for time served. And sometimes I want to remind her that you have to take a break from the outrage every now and then to sit back and enjoy the world you are so desperately trying to save.
But I also know that there is nothing more annoying than to be young and idealistic and have some old burn-out tell you, “Yeah, I was just like you once, before I grew up,” and so for the most part I bite my tongue and accept the lecture. I shake my head and cluck sympathetically when she bemoans the lack of people of color and/or size in most magazines, and even nod in agreement when she rails against my favorite TV shows and movies for not passing the Bechdel Test (are there two or more women in it who have names, do they talk to each other, and do they talk to each other about something other than a man).
But I’m also old enough that sometimes I just want to read a magazine, or sometimes I just want to watch a movie, and I want to be able to do both of those things without being lectured—especially by someone who still has to be reminded, after an entire lifetime spent in Flagstaff, to put her empty yogurt cup in the recycle bin. I know, I know, everyone has their pet causes, and it’s probably a hell of a lot more romantic to “man the barricades” over equal rights than recite from memory the difference between number one and number seven plastic, but still: I can’t help that wondering if in twenty years I will be getting a lecture on my recycling habits, and twenty years after that if I will be getting another lecture on the importance of retirement savings.
I shudder to think what magazine that particular advice column rant will appear in. Hip Great-Grandma, perhaps?