A Gen F’er Meets Her Great-Great-Grandparents
The novel I am working on is about the impact of one generation on the next. So, when thinking about the meaning of Generation F, I immediately considered it in relation to preceding generations.
What would my grandparents think of Generation F? (And what, by the way, should their generation be called? Generation Sh, for shtetl? Generation S, for survivors? Generation TR, for Teddy Roosevelt?)
I picture my great-niece, the Generation F’er Madeline, at her great-great-grandmother’s dining table. My grandma’s head is shaking, as it has at least since my generation gathered at this same table for matzo ball soup and matzo sandwiches of haroset and bitter herbs.
Madeline is peeking at her iPhone beneath the white embroidered tablecloth, under which my generation ducked to sneak sips of sweet and sticky Manischewitz.
Madeline knows this shaking may be Parkinson’s. Her generation knows these things. It’s the beneficiary of the gradual ending of the hush around so much—illness, sex, race, gender.
My generation, Madeline’s grandmother’s generation, when it sat at the same table, thought the shaking was an expression of disapproval. Grandma, we thought, was onto us and the Manischewitz.
The shaking, as we saw it, was an incessant reproach for our wayward thoughts, for whatever we secretly did that the grownups didn’t want us to do.
But this, Madeline’s generation, isn’t prey to that. It’s been brought up to be unashamed, proud of whoever they are. They live by their beliefs and values; they don’t compartmentalize to make their way under present circumstances.
Madeline’s parents, too, would know the shaking was probably Parkinson’s. But they retain some of the fear of being disapproved of by earlier generations. Possibly the shaking had something to do with the contrasting colors of their skin.
“Shvartze,” the great-great-grandfather had been heard to say—a racist Jews’ word for a person of color. All succeeding generations had cringed when the offending word had come out of the family patriarch’s mouth, and they were glad the great-great-granddaughter had never heard him say it.
And if she had, what would she have said?
Whatever it was, it would have been forthright. It would have been impossible to mistake for a degenerative disease. It would be thoughtful, devoid of rancor and not intended to shame. It would respect her great-great-grandfather’s experience. But it would give him pause.