By Rob Long
Thursday, March 21, 2019
Not too long ago, a young friend of mine was trying to
remember the name of a movie. “You know that movie where the two women drive
off a cliff at the end? What was that movie called? Was it Laverne & Shirley?”
And he wasn’t even trying to be cruel. In his mind, all
of those things just collided together, and why shouldn’t they? When you’re
young, everything that happened before you were born is history, and everything
that happened afterwards is life. It’s only natural, if you’re young, to care
more about life. Laverne, Shirley, Thelma, Louise — what’s the difference,
really, if you were born in 1987? One is a TV show that went off the air in
1983; the other is a movie that premiered a mere eight years later.
But when you’re old — and I’m not pointing fingers here,
but you know who you are — history and life become so muddled up that the only
way to keep the memories straight is to know where you were when certain things
happened. The way an old person keeps Reykjavik and hanging chads and
ketchup-as-a-vegetable and Janet Reno and fidget spinners all in the right
blips on the time line is to think about what was going on in your life at the
time: senior year in college, remodeling a house, ninth grade, making real
money for the first time, and right before I had my first colonoscopy.
In politics, it often comes down to an emotional memory.
Did I care whether George H. W. Bush prevailed against Michael Dukakis in 1988?
I really, honestly, and truly did. Did I care, eight years later, whether Bob
Dole unseated Bill Clinton? I really, honestly, and truly did not. The
difference wasn’t the country or the world or the challenges of the end of the
American Century. The difference was me: In 1988 I was 23 and thought that life
was full of critical turning points, and in 1996 I was 31 and thought, You know, things just tend to work
themselves out. Also, as I have mentioned, in 1996 I was making real money
for the first time.
The Obama years are, for me, a mishmash of iPhones. I
remember sending emails on my very first iPhone to a politically wise friend of
mine, asking when he thought Obama would drop out and concede the Democratic
nomination to Hillary Clinton. I can still conjure up the mental picture of his
reply — “He won’t. He’s going to win” — and the derisive snort I made when I
read it. (I made similar snorts eight years later, by the way.)
I’m pretty sure it was on the 2008 iPhone 3G that I saw a
video, produced by some neighbors of mine in Venice Beach, of a dozen or so
young kids in identical powder-blue T-shirts with “Hope” emblazoned in what we
now call “Obama sans” or “Obama Neue” font, singing a song composed by their
beaming parents — visible, like all good progressive parents, just at the edge
of the screen, making encouraging gestures and gazing with admiration at their
children. “Obama’s going to change it, Obama’s going to lead them,” a
picture-perfect little girl sings — she’s even, adorably, missing her front
teeth. The kids sing and chant and make stylized jazz hands, and yes, they’re
singing about Obama, so yes, it’s all a little much, but it’s hard to watch a
bunch of sweetly cheerful children around ten or eleven and keep a scowl on
your face. I managed, obviously, but not without some real effort.
The parents, of course, are awful. Dressed in Venice
Beach Bohemian, hairdos all kooky and quirky, one of them plays the flute,
interesting hat wear, adult males with skateboards — it’s all a little bit past
parody, though because these are my neighbors I know it’s true. I know them
because I’ve seen them at the local coffee shop with toddlers named “Hosea” and
“Mabel,” “Esteban” and “Strawberry.” I’ve seen them look at their kids the way
I sometimes look at my Labrador, with a kind of open-mouthed adoration, with
the kind of love you can have for a thing that will joyfully and
enthusiastically learn the basic commands, run and chase a tennis ball, climb
up next to you on the sofa, and put its head in your lap, pretend to care about
what you care about, and sing a stupid song you wrote about Obama.
The video is still up there, on YouTube, and depending on
your point of view it’s either a nutty artifact of a profoundly silly cult or a
grim herald of things to come. My vote is the latter, because ever since I
watched that video on my iPhone 3G I’ve been watching similar videos on thinner
and faster phones: videos of children at town halls, prodded by their parents
(iPhone 4); videos of children protesting this or that complicated issue with
doe eyes and hand-painted T-shirts (iPhone 5); and, most recently, a staged
confrontation between children upset about climate change and the senior
senator from California, Dianne Feinstein, who finally snapped (she’s almost
90, after all) and told the kids to shut it. And, boy, did that cause a
freak-out, because you’re not supposed to yell at someone else’s kids, just
like you’re not supposed to reprimand someone else’s dog.
Last month — and I know it was last month because I saw
it on my new iPad Pro with Retina display — I watched an eleven-year-old boy
perform a drag act at a gay bar in Brooklyn, collecting dollar bills from adult
male patrons and getting a lot of positive media attention. His parents aren’t
evident in the video I watched, but news accounts portray them as terrifically
supportive. They’d have to be, I guess, because someone has to pay for those
outfits and all that makeup. The kid is good but, to judge from the video, not
much of an earner. Yet, anyway.
The parents are
brainwashing those kids! is what we hear, on Fox News and on Twitter
timelines. And that’s probably true, although the thing about brainwashing is
that it doesn’t really last.
They’re using their
kids as props! is another claim, and that’s definitely true. There’s
something off-putting about parents who are so eager to put their obedient and
politically aligned children front and center, uploaded to YouTube or annoying
a senator or twerking for dollars in drag. It’s weird and creepy in the same
way that the old Toys-R-Us logo was creepy. It had the “R” printed backwards,
as if drawn by a child. (Or a Russian, but that’s not what they were going
for.)
We knew it wasn’t drawn by a child. We knew it was drawn
by an art director who was trying to draw like a child, which made the whole
thing seem forced and untrue, like a bunch of kids pretending to love a
presidential candidate or an eleven-year-old lip-syncing to songs he (I hope)
doesn’t totally understand.
Full disclosure: I am not licensed to practice
psychology, though I’m about to do it anyway. We say that parents try to “live
through” their children. Their hopes and dreams, thwarted ambitions, unrealized
goals — all of these are loaded onto their offspring in a set of impossibly
heavy expectations in order to have their children become just like them, only
better. Here, though, with these parents, it seems to be reversed. They don’t
want their kids to be like them; they want to be their kids. They don’t want to be grown-ups with all of that
irritating experience and perspective. They want to be children, wearing
T-shirts and shorts, confronting politicians with youthful zeal and ignorance,
not being responsible for doing the reading or appreciating the complexity. Not
being adults, in other words. The children of these parents have become what
Freudians might call “self objects” — empty vessels to be used to wrap up some
unfinished business, to complete some childhood experiences, to have the
activist and politically dramatic youth that kids who grew up in the ’80s and
’90s didn’t have.
Look at the faces of the parents in that long-ago Venice
Beach video. (For that matter, look at their clothes! Perfect for after-school
play dates!) Listen to the voices of the parents of those kids who got an
earful from Dianne Feinstein. They sound like petulant children. The actual
children involved, on the other hand, sound a lot more tempered and
philosophical. Maybe that’s why their parents gave them such grown-up,
old-timey names. It keeps them in their place. “Doug” and “Jennifer” sound like
kids’ names. “Hosea” and “Mabel” sound like old people.
It was more than ten iPhones ago when my Venice Beach
neighbors made their children sing praises to Barack Obama. The angelic
children of that video are now twelve years older — some of them out of college
already, on the way to lives of their own. Some of them, I’m pretty sure, work
at my local coffee shop, and every now and then I try to look past the neck
tattoos and ear gauges and skinny jeans and see if I can recognize one or two.
I wonder whether they remember that day and that song. I wonder whether they
have a really clear memory of the man they were singing about or it’s all a
Laverne & Shirley & Thelma & Louise muddle. I wonder, while I watch
them gravely pour out some heart-shaped latte art, whether their parents ever
backed off and let them have childhoods of their own.
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