I'm A White Male Boomer Who Inherited A World Meant For Me — But In Retrospect, I Accomplished Everything On The Backs Of Women
I didn’t know that from the 1980s on, I would be facing a different world, one that demanded harder work or cheating to get ahead.
Jonathan Cosens | Unsplash The dethroning took a long time, and while mostly undetected — near the end — it was swift and harsh.
As a white male Baby Boomer who came of age in the late ’60s, I inherited a world that was primed for me.
It was a prosperous time, rife with opportunity. I could take my time on the glide path of male advantage.
I bungled my way through undergrad and got through grad school on the shoulders of my spouse who worked full-time and did my research and typing for me. It was okay because the mojo of my inevitable rise to glory was too potent to allow for misgivings.
I would pay her back tenfold. I would make her a queen because the coin of the realm was my privilege. Everyone around me was much more hurried about my future than I was.
In retrospect, I did everything on the backs of women.
Andrea Piacquadio / Pexels
Earlier, I had older sisters who enabled me and a mother who would rather do it herself than take the time to teach me.
I learned quickly that if I screwed it up or “quiet-quit” my family chores, someone would pick up the slack. My father was the classic sole provider who worked two jobs and did virtually nothing at home, so I had a good role model for strategic domestic work evasion.
I didn’t know that from the 1980’s on I would be facing a different world, one that demanded harder work or cheating to get ahead. Along with most people, I could no longer meet the sole provider threshold. The rug was pulled out strand by strand until there was only the hard floor. Rough landing.
For the first time, I had to compete with women and minorities. I had to do the work.
I wasn’t willing to cheat, so I had to up my game. That exposed an insidious downside of privilege — it fools you into thinking you earned something.
Then, when you must earn it, it feels unfair. I felt sorry for myself. That doesn’t mean I expect you to feel sorry for me, too.
I also felt that suddenly I was running out of time. I hadn’t made my fortune; I hadn’t published my bestseller, and I hadn’t yet lied my way into elected higher office. My spouse still had to work.
I was mad at the world and mad at myself. I was suddenly a loser, or worse, someone who never really tried to reach his “full potential.” By the way, whoever coined that phrase deserves much of the credit for the chronic unhappiness in our society.
At age 35, I shifted into hurry-up mode. Now I had to hustle just to maintain the lifestyle to which I was accustomed, let alone get ahead. For 25 years, I did that, until I couldn't do it anymore.
I retired, if you want to call it that, and started freelancing as a writer and consultant, but I still was in a constant state of hurry, even though there was no need. I still felt like I wasn’t making enough money and clients were not flocking to my door like I thought they would. Hold on, don’t start the GoFundMe just yet.
I enjoyed a decent career, and we are more than surviving, but it was far from the dreams of luxury and lauded status I once expected.
The sense of loss was profound and complicated. Grieving a dream takes longer than grieving something tangible, perhaps because the bargaining stage never ends. Waves of “Maybe I could still do it” kept washing ashore between the ebbs of feeling “all washed up.”
The king had lost his crown and felt the humiliation of the unprivileged. Of course, as a white male, I still enjoy the benefits of systemic privilege, but I don’t feel it viscerally like I once did. Poor, poor me.
Something had to give. When we’re ready for it, one incident can be a tipping point. It happened during a conference where I was speaking.
Upon leaving, I forgot where I parked my car among the several garages in the area. (Nothing necessarily new or geezer-related; I’ve always had a talent for losing my car).
I walked around for a while, thinking I would likely come across it. An hour later, I was still searching. I started to panic about the possibility that it had been stolen, or that I was losing my mind and might wander in this concrete desert looking for my parking oasis forever.
The anxiety subsided almost immediately because the rebound thought was, “So what? It’s a beautiful day and you’re getting some exercise.” I realized there was no reason to be in a hurry or to worry.
Then it hit me. Bam! “Most of your life, you’ve been in a hurry for no reason!” I had heard that slow and steady wins the race, but right then I thought, “It might be better not to enter the race at all.”
Instantly, the search for my car became just a walk I was enjoying, and finding my car was secondary. Zap! Looking at the sky and the fall colors made me aware that my focus had been on the future most of my life. Presto! My car magically appeared around the next corner. It hadn’t moved at all, but my viewpoint had.
This shift in thought affected my view of everything. I didn’t do things halfway as a youngster because I was lazy; I did it because I was always exhausted.
Andrea Piacquadio / Pexels
My mental energy was always frantically lunging ahead instead of striding in the moment. I didn’t exploit others out of selfishness, but more because I feared I wouldn’t reach high enough, fast enough. I used them and deluded myself because of the treachery of believing I was not good enough.
I shirked responsibilities because I had to reserve my energy for the big thing that was always just around the corner. Privilege does that too; it makes us think we are too important to participate in the mundane. Indeed, it is lonely at the top, especially when the top is a product of one’s imagination.
Now I see it in my past and all around me. I know where my insecurity came from. It probably was shaped by many experiences, but I recall an incident when my mother, in a rage, snatched a rake out of my ten-year-old hands because I was not doing it fast enough.
She finished the job without me. She and my dad rarely had time for me because of the demands they felt. I recalled my grandmother offering me sandwiches made of pure sugar and butter to get me out of her hair so the house could be spotless. Her home was a showcase, not a living space. My life became that too.
I’ve slowed down. I now see the struggles and joys of others more. The other day, I saw a child getting his first haircut and being told he wouldn’t get a sucker if he cried.
He was scared. I didn’t blame him. A stranger with cutting tools was taking parts of him without his consent or understanding. Fair trade, eh, his true feelings and wanting comfort vs. a little sugar fix. It sounded way too familiar. It pissed me off.
My new perspective means that I see my toddler grandsons “discovering and exploring”, instead of “getting into things.” I no longer expect them to perform at my convenience.
I let them take time. I don’t expect them to know how to do things the first time. Repetition builds competence. Patience builds confidence.
The four-year-old helped me rake leaves this fall, and he didn’t get them all in his designated area, but he got some. I didn’t need to tell him he was doing it wrong and snatch the rake from his tiny hands.
For me, the occasional pain of ‘never good enough’ still hurts deeply, but I don’t have to take it out on others anymore. Besides, I’ll take that pain any day over the suffering of those who have never been allowed to try.
Overall, my privilege made it easier for me and, in truth, I have everything I need. Yet, that same privilege almost robbed me of the joy of living and, whether we are a member of a privileged class or not, we play on the field on which we find ourselves. What matters is that we ultimately do find ourselves.
Mostly, I just hope that society evolves so that all people have the opportunity to get to the same place I have learned to embrace — making a living without skipping the living part.
Because of the special moments I can now cherish, I don’t miss the throne all that much.
Tom Bissonette is a retired Clinical Director, Psychotherapist, Developmental and Prevention Educator, and freelance writer. He taught courses on Adolescent and Young Adult Development at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga for 20 years. His Asynchronous Development Model was featured in the Chronicle of Higher Education and he recently created a 12-book children's series promoting social/emotional learning.