Читать книгу 20 Something Manifesto - Christine Hassler - Страница 21

Confession: I played with Barbies until I was thirteen. Skipper was studying anthropology and having an affair with her psychology professor. Kelly was jet-setting to Paris for an unpaid internship with Vogue and working on her tan. Midge was writing the next great American novel, while Barbie was putting in long hours at a law firm and getting divorced. Ken, who was a successful doctor, traveled to various medical conferences around the country. Barbie and Ken were responsible; they worked hard and brought home the bacon. They encouraged Skipper, Midge, and Kelly to be creative, and college was inevitable. They wouldn’t have student loans; they would study dance and film at small liberal arts colleges in New England. They would have cars already paid for and money to fall back on. They wouldn’t need part-time jobs. Their options were endless as my imagination ran wild.

Eventually, I stopped playing with Barbies, but I still believed in boundless opportunity. I still hadn’t made the transition from child to adult, a transition I assumed would naturally occur during college. I was wrong. Instead of being a microcosm of the “real world,” college was more like an episode of MTV’s reality show. We were given so much, endless subjects to study and explore, libraries full of books to read, not to mention food, gyms, and other resources that we weren’t paying for. We didn’t have much responsibility, besides class and homework, yet somehow everyone I knew in college had some sort of problem. Everyone was stressed out and complained. Then of course there was the drama of parties — hook ups and the constant drunken haze that made everyone act like animals in a circus ring from Thursday until Sunday night.

We were miserable, not realizing how blessed we were. I wish I had the perspective that I do now, and that I had forced myself to take a few steps back and focus on what really mattered. It was only when someone passed away, got sick, or was in an accident that anyone in college took a moment to act like they really cared. It was the same with politics; you wouldn’t hear a peep from anyone about health care, taxes, or the state of our education system until just before election week, and then all of a sudden everyone had an opinion about everything. We were a group of young people who didn’t have a cause. We were so different from our parents’ generation.

My parents had careers in medicine and business. They got through college on scholarships and by working. They understood that college was a means to financial security, and that money wasn’t something your father deposited into an ATM. They had opinions, not because it seemed like they should, but because they knew that life outside their social circle would affect them. When they had children, they were thrilled that they could give their daughters a life full of summer camp, vacations, writing classes, and French horn lessons. My parents showed me that security, love, and opportunities were endless — so I cultivated a vivid imagination. I fell in and out of love — there was always something to plan for: the next party, the job, the apartment, and the book I wanted to write. Possibility was enough, and it kept me from growing up. I wasn’t thinking about anything but what I wanted.

Sure, I felt a little guilty sometimes. When I realized I didn’t know how to iron a shirt or anything about taxes. When I thought about my dad driving to work every day, and how every time I bought a new dress, he was picking up the bill. My senior year of college I felt like I was still thirteen, upstairs playing with Barbies.

When I graduated, I got a job in publishing after five unpaid magazine internships. It was perfect and glamorous. I would write, design fashion spreads, and go to photo shoots. I felt ready. Once I was on my own in New York City, the reality set in that I wasn’t making enough money to cover my rent. I was adjusting to a lifestyle that was so unnatural compared to my college experience. I felt like I wasn’t enjoying my life, but just going through the motions. People bumped into me on the subway, and I snapped at them. I stopped looking at buildings and writing poetry. Mentally, I began to feel numb, like my life, my job, and my bills were just another unpaid internship that would be over at the end of the summer or a spring break vacation gone sour — but that was not the reality.

“Reaching your goals always takes longer than you expect. There’s no such thing as instant gratification.”

Musician, 29, serious relationship, California

I developed a terrible fear that my job wasn’t a real career because I couldn’t support myself. I was embarrassed. What did I have to show for myself? Was everyone waiting for me to stop with the publishing business and start my “real” career in business or law? It feels like life at twenty-three is just another round of make-believe. I want to pay my own taxes and cover my rent and start thinking about buying a house. And then I don’t — I want to stay out until midnight singing karaoke with my girlfriends and read all day on Sunday. I want to pretend for a little while longer. I wait for a turning point, a clearing in my head. I am torn between reality and make-believe.

I am part of “the Entitlement Generation.” I was encouraged to think creatively. I had so many options that I had too many. This led to a sort of plateau in my personal development. It is a double-edged sword because on the one hand I am so blessed with my experiences and endless options, but on the other hand, I still feel like a child. I feel like my job isn’t real because I am not where my parents were at my age. Walking home, in the shoes my father bought me, I still feel I have yet to grow up.