Send Generation X to War

I recently stumbled upon the solution to all the woes of Generation X. I think that I've finally found a way to silence the litany of whining alternative rockers. My idea may seem a bit bold, but visionary concepts often are. I propose that we gather up he angst-ridden masses and send them of as canon-fodder for a great big world war.

I am not suggesting generational genocide. I am sure that many of my peers will make solid contributions to our struggling society once they return from the front lines. However, I do insist that we all need to experience a little shell shock before we start driving in car pools. I do not exempt myself from this little scheme and you may be wondering why I would wish to enter into harm's way. The answer is simple. Our generation is pathetic.

This sad, self-deprecating reality first hit me when "Beverly Hills 90210" soared to popularity. It was brought into sharper focus by Bob Dole's convention speech and his oft quoted characterization of a "core of the elite" within the Clinton administration "who never grew up, never did anything real, never sacrificed, never suffered and never learned..." I don't know whether that sheltered elite exists in the White House, but I have come to realize that it definitely exists at Harvard.

By Dole's definition, Harvard's" core of the elite" is quite substantial. We are easily identified by our middle and upper class origins. We owned Star Wars action figures, watched He-Man and Rainbow Bright, played Atari and loved Molly Ringwald. Our national tragedies were the Challenger disaster and the stock market crash of 1987. We attended high school as the Berlin Wall crumbled and joined in celebrating the victory that our elders had won.

I recognize that our world has not been entirely carefree. The dangers of street violence, drugs, sex, and terrorism have all been on the rise. Our economic futures are clouded in uncertainty. However, for most of us in the "elite," these woes have been stories in Newsweek and topics for high school debate tournaments. And we sure do debate a lot.

In fact, we in the "elite" discuss the troubles of the world more than those who are actually affected by them. Of course, it does make sense that an impoverished single mom probably doesn't have much time to argue public policy. We, on the other hand, sit up in our dorm rooms and quarrel until the sun comes up the next morning.

It always amazes me when the child of a wealthy lawyer states with absolute certainty how the food stamp program should work. I imagine that their certitude stems from their vast experience with the system. Why do we, the "elite," suppose that we have all the answers?

We, the "elite," like to complain. We complain that the government does everything wrong. We watch television shows that complain about how hard it is to be a teenager. We complain about the leaders of the past and note how we would have handled things so much better. We complain because the world doesn't run the way think it should. We speak from the wisdom afforded by 20 years of purely classroom experience.

I do not contend that only a crack addict has the right to discuss the problems of drug addiction. Obviously, we are all entitled to formulate opinions and test them in deliberation. We are all entitled to expect better from our world. My fault with the bulk of the "elite" is their total lack of humility.

The next time we sit down in a dorm room to solve a national crisis, we should heed the words of Bob Dole. Thankfully, we have never sacrificed nor suffered, and thus we may have never truly learned. If we had actually marched for civil rights, how would we feel about affirmative action? If our friends had died in the hills of North Korea, would we be so critical of those who feared communism? If we had given something of ourselves for this country, would a politician's patriotic loyalties mean so little?

We in the "elite" should be grateful for our sheltered existence. We should also recognize the limitations that this existence imposes. Maybe then we will complain a little less and cease wallowing in the odd culture of disquiet that we have created. In 1969, the year after the Tet Offensive, the Beatles sang "Here Comes the Sun." In 1993, Kurt Cobain blew off his head with a shotgun. We really must grow up.

In my view we can either mature voluntarily or adopt my cannon-fodder proposition. I have heard that there is nothing quite like the roar of a machine gun to wash away childish arrogance. On the other hand, a trial by fire might not work after all. I've asked a few acquaintances about how they'd feel about fighting in a world war and they've all given me the same response. They beam proudly and reply, "I'd dodge the draft."