Stirring Point

I think about the hours—the ones we’ve spent plunged in deep conversation. You, with your inquisitive eyes, asking questions and probing for clarity. Me, with a head full of scattered thoughts, trying to string some coherence together.

It is not that the world confuses you. Age gave you wisdom and you’re slick at tracking history’s patterns. It’s the loss of decency that confounds you, and how the whole damn lot of humanity is today’s guilty party. We’ve given up on our “love thy brother” maxim. We’re now in the “I got mine” days, and to hell with everyone else. You know this is just your perception. We’ve talked about it plenty. But some perceptions feel palpable. And this one slaps the skin.

The old days were the ‘30s and ‘40s in Philadelphia. Kensington, Center City, Rittenhouse: You speak of these neighborhoods as if they’re old friends. The automat, double features for a nickel, soda jerks and Studebakers. They were hard times, “with the depression and all,” but they were simpler times compared with today. Sure, problems were aplenty: bread lines, World War II, Japanese internment camps, racism and poverty. But people were kinder to each other, and that mattered. Neighbors helped neighbors. Strangers still lent a hand. Then the ‘50s arrived with McCarthyism, spreading “red” paranoia like a virus. That led to the ‘60s landing like a battering ram against the door of the American pysche. The assassination of Kennedy, the Cold War, the riots in Watts, civil rights struggles, Vietnam—domestic terrorism. These issues slid right into the ’70s, when infrastructure failure, drug use and violent crime spiked. You tell me there was plenty of greed and that hasn’t changed. The right conditions, though, helped greed swell to new heights. Assholes like the Milkens and Boeskys of the ‘80s carved up the economy like it was a Christmas goose. Then the ‘90s fought back with cultural apathy, leaving a generational middle finger lingering in the air. And where did it bring us? To the modern-day shitshow we now call 2024.

We walk around with our faces buried in our phones and that baffles you. We love them; we hate them. We need them; we blame our problems on them. To you, we sound like children. You remember a time when people sat with each other, telling stories, exploring family dynamics and discussing social issues. “They squabbled” about politics, but they rarely started the conversation with their hands wrapped around each other’s necks. Not today. That requires humility, and it seems we’ve misplaced that antidote.

Your stories put me in grandpop’s basement, where I lean against his woodbench while he sneaks a few drags off a lit Pall Mall. They plop me along the banks of the Lehigh River as you sun yourself with a friend, splashing your feet in the cool waters of memory. They transport me to the hospital where you met my grandfather—you, handing out sandwiches and snacks, while he, a soldier, lay recovering with shrapnel beneath his skin.

Your language is a time capsule, with phrasing fresh off the pen tip of Dashiell Hammett. You call yourself a “bad penny.” Politicians are “crooks” and “shysters.” The good ones have “moxy,” but they’re few and far between. Your threats are comical: “Don’t make me sit on you!” Or, “Someone ought to bop that guy on the head.” Yeah, bop them on the head. That should fix everything. 

In due time, my generation will see the world through your eyes. Times change, tech outpaces the old and new trends stop making sense. It’s no surprise that we’ll all sit in your seat someday. It’s the damn selfishness, though, that’ll get us. Our listening has lapsed. We seek therapists and gurus, forgetting the purpose of a community. And when the two of us talk, I’m reminded of this. You ask questions, then sit and wait to listen. Therapists do this too and it’s helpful. But those conversations are framed in transactions, where conversations with you are framed in love. And a grandmother’s wisdom and love are one hell of a combination.