Saturday, August 31, 2013

1937 Birth Cohorts: The Epicenter of the Silent Generation


1937 Birth Cohorts: The Epicenter of the Silent Generation

 

1937: Historical Highlights

The broadcast in 1937 of the crowning of George VI, following his brother Edward’s abdication announcement, was the first worldwide radio program heard in the United States, and it can be presumed that many in the United States tuned in for the broadcast. In addition, 1937 saw the completion of the Golden Gate Bridge, the death of millionaire-philanthropists Andrew Mellon and John D. Rockefeller, the Hindenburg dirigible disaster by fire, and the loss of Amelia Earhart on a flight over the Pacific. It also is marked as the year of the first true supermarket, which opened in Queens, New York.


Our Arrival

Arriving as depression babies, we were dramatically fewer in number than in previous or following years. In 1933 the birthrate for women in their prime childbearing years had dropped to the lowest ever recorded in the United States and remained there for several years, including 1937 when 2,413,000 babies were born, the first American generation to be born mainly in hospitals. We were also part of a group that increased the population by only seven percent, the lowest decennial growth rate in American history. And the life expectancy for those of us born this year was 60 years of age. (Eighty percent of our graduation class survive at this date in 2013; however, only sixty percent of our eighth grade cohort are still living.)

Of the more than two million 1937 birth cohorts, 101 would become graduates of the Class of 1955 of Curwensville High School located in the central hills of Pennsylvania. While a few of our class members had been born prior to 1937 and one not until late 1938, all were in the same class by eighth grade and are being counted in this cohort. Approximately a third of us would have spent all 12 years of public school together.

In our eighth grade year (the year when Curwensville High School became Curwensville Joint High School) the Class of 1955 became 142 in number. [1] In ninth grade we held a similar number at 145[2] (including five sets of twins). In tenth grade we numbered 128[3] and in eleventh grade, 106.[4] We were 101 as graduating seniors (reduced to three sets of twins, one male set, one female, and one mixed).

There were various groupings of these 101 classmates during these twelve years, both during the school day and in spending time together in sports, musical groups, dancing lessons, scouts, and church activities. There were different pairings of friends, several short-lived “secret clubs,” many combinations of best friends (although there were some coteries who pretty well stayed together for the 12 years), a few best friends who never varied or wavered, and some dating pairs. We were each other’s teammates, competitors, steadies, nemeses, and, perhaps later, lovers. We laughed, shared private jokes, harbored secrets, kept things from each other, but rarely if ever betrayed one another.

We are a generation and of representatives of a generation, of children who for the most part were cherished, who were watched over by the town, who were cared for, taught, and guided by the same teachers, who were influenced by peers and adults, and who, for the most part, remained true to themselves and true to one another.

We were, like all cohorts, shaped by our time and we share the destiny of that time and place. As a cohort we were unique in that all of us, from the time of our birth, encountered the same national events, moods, and trends at the same time. We developed a sense of collective identity and, in many ways, a common personality with boundaries “fixed” by that personality. And, like any cohort, as we aged, our inner beliefs retained a consistency, a collective inner compass, much like the personality of an individual growing older.[5]

We held a common age location and we reacted to history as a cohort, that is, we generally all responded in the same way, but in a way that was different from another age cohort. For example, while D-Day empowered those of the GI generation, it intimidated us. GIs remember the bombing of Pearl Harbor as the call to their country’s service; we saw this same event through the eyes of the awe-struck children we were, trying to figure out just who Pearl Harbor was. Boomers regard Pearl Harbor as the possible reason for their large number (fathers returning home from the war eager to procreate), while Generation Xers view Pearl Harbor Day as simply a part of past history. 

We born in 1937 were the unobtrusive children of the Depression and World War II and would become the conformist “Lonely Crowd,” Peace Corps volunteers, and middle managers of an expanding public sector. We later came to realize that we had come of age too late for combat in Korea and too early to feel the heat of the Vietnam draft. Notably, where practically every society can recognize a discrete coming-of-age moment (historic rite of passage), we did not have one. We did not experience any social moment when we perceived that a single historic event was radically altering our social environment and would impact everything around us forever after.

All points of reference for us are in terms of our next elders, the Greatest Generation. Their benchmarks of World War II are our benchmarks as well, because the Korean War was not historically important enough to qualify to be ours. The members of the Greatest Generation were our unmatched heroes in all regards—war heroes we adulated, football players and majorettes we emulated, and later, the country’s leaders we followed.

George Arnold, himself a child in the mid-fifties, calls us “The In-Betweeners,” whose members, in market research studies, tend to display remarkable similar tendencies, but tendencies unlike any other demographic group of this century.[6] Arnold, a marketer and publicist, also notes that this is a demographic group that consistently displayed irreverent, if not outlandish, tendencies in study after study of attitudes and usage.

Strauss and Howe (Generations) placed us in their generational category of Recessive Adaptive, characterized as a generation that grows up overprotected, is suffocated in youth during a secular crisis, matures into risk-averse conformists, produces indecisive midlife leaders who act as arbitrators, and who maintain influence (but garner less respect) as elders.[7]

Among the few children’s books we had, favorites were the Little Golden Book Tootle, the train who always stayed on track, and Paddle to the Sea about a little boat that floated safely with the current. We were both pampered and commanded, our worlds regulated with the “heaviest hand of the twentieth century,”[8] but we enjoyed the lowest child labor rate. We also were the earliest marrying and earliest-baby-producing generation in American history, but marked less by what we ourselves did than by what those older and younger did.[9]
 
We were the last generation of Americans to suffer the dread diseases of childhood—and to survive them without antibiotics, penicillin, or even the sulfa drugs then needed for the “war effort.”[10]

Feeling disquieted by our lack of connectedness, we were less successful in forging a sense of national or personal direction than any other generation in living memory, leaving us with what Gail Sheehy calls “resignation, a vague dissatisfaction with jobs, families, our children, and, most of all, ourselves.”[11] The result is a wounded collective ego, what Daniel Levinson described as a silent despair and fear of becoming irrelevant.[12] The board game “Sorry” that was so popular with us may serve as an appropriate metaphor for what we were.[13] And, perhaps most telling is that our cohort group has scored highest of all groups in geometric reasoning, second in logical reasoning, but last in “word fluency.”[14] It is troubling to consider that it was believed there was no need for us to have language fluency, only acquiescence resulting in silence.
 
Of course we didn’t know all of this in 1937. If we were hungry, we were fed, although fewer at the breast than at any other time in history. We were kept clean, and we were loved; however, according to conventional wisdom that child rearing should focus on building discipline and that babies should not be "spoiled" by picking them up when they cried, we were not cuddled and coddled. Did that make us more stoic? Perhaps. Is that why we as a generation are less demonstrative? Most likely. Is this a reason we didn’t speak out? Very probably this is a contributing factor.

This was the era of playpens (caged), harnesses (confined), and sometimes ropes (leashed)—all, as it was said, so we would not get hurt. Yet, since it was still the era of mothers who did not work outside the home, what was the need for restraints?
 
Our parents wanted their children to be obedient, to behave courteously, to feel close to the family group, and to be religious. Character training was a deliberate parental task with the focus on keeping the child from being a nuisance to the adult world. Our parents were strict about manners, toilet training, sex education (or lack thereof), and gender behavior. Children were “brought up” rather than, as some would say, “loved up,” then continued to bring themselves up, feeling throughout life that their characters were something to be worked on.[15] There was an insistence by all adults that we be “normal” children, with normal being defined as cooperative, congenial, well-adjusted, conforming, and adaptable.

There were regulations on both our language and our appearance. Certain words, like “stinker,” were off-limits in many households[16] (and many of us still are uncomfortable using such words). Mothers spelled the words they couldn’t make themselves speak, and they avoided terms for sexual matters as if such matters simply did not exist. They conscientiously kept a child clothed at all times because nudity was “not nice.” This, of course, resulted in prudishness, particularly in little girls.
 
As might be expected, there was also a stricter prohibition regarding sexual activity in children that was stronger among mothers of girls. Boys were allowed more aggressive behavior, but girls were expected to be clearly feminine. The emphasis on daughters needing to be “ladylike” was united with a strong emphasis on good manners, especially table manners. Chores were gender-geared and, in general, boys were held to a higher expectation than were girls to achieve scholastically.

In retrospect it becomes clear just how much alike we all were and are. While not all of us had the same family background or day-to-day experiences, our lives were very similar. The family rules that governed all of us were very much the same, the holidays we shared were spent in much the same way, and events were framed by the same parameters.
 
Our houses were of various styles, most of them plain boards or clapboard, some unpainted; some were fronted by sidewalks, some houses set back and some had porches as the first step up from the abutting walkways. Sidewalks allowed for a place to skate, ride bicycles, and pull wagons. Most houses were two-storied, most with excavated cellars, some of these with concreted floors, most with furnaces. Some exteriors were covered with shingles, typically gray or red, some of octagonal shape. These shingled houses we viewed as “old fashioned,” although that may have been only because the older, more run-down homes on our streets were predominantly of this covering. Street lights in neighborhoods were not typical—nor are they yet in many towns.

Those homes that were set back from the street prided themselves on the large trees that provided shade for the requisite porches, preferably large enough for a porch swing or glider (or a lawn swing in the front yard) where families sat on summer evenings, looking out and down the street. Lawns were mowed and a few backyards contained a sandbox and/or a swing set. (We had a sand/dirt pile and a swing hanging from a limb of a tree.) The house I was brought into, following the usual week’s stay in the hospital where I was born, had been purchased by my parents whose growing family had led to the decision to move from Hill Street, which was one of the few streets in Curwensville not built on a hill.
 



[1] counted from a class picture in the high school yearbook
[2] the number given in the yearbook
[3] pictured in the yearbook (likely about 130 or so enrolled)
[4] pictured in the yearbook (likely at least 108 enrolled)
[5] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 66.
[6] Arnold, p. 1.
[7] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 74.
[8] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 286.
[9] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 281.
[10] Eisler, p. 31.
[11] Sheehy, in Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 292.
[12] Levinson, in Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 292.
[13] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 292.
[14] Strauss and Howe, Generations, p. 50.
[15] Reisman, p. 61.
[16] Breines, p. 61.

Monday, August 12, 2013

Reunions, Part II, Regrets


Reunion, Part II: Regrets
 

I’d give a million tomorrows for just one yesterday…

Lyrics by Milton Berle, 1950
Music by Jerry Livingston

 
What always surprises me as I read accounts of class reunions is the focus most authors have on what one of them termed the “muted sexuality” of the class reunions. I wasn’t aware of that at our reunions, any more than the usual and very same kind of kidding that went on in high school, which I never thought of as “muted sexuality.”

Perhaps, as some authors suggest, with the passing of years memories of high school crushes grow more desperate or one is freer to be open with these feelings when less can be done about them. Or it could be that the one who does the approaching just wants the person to know that he/she was the object of their affections in high school.

Authors who write about reunions often describe incidents of persons who hold the fantasy of consummating a relationship that was not completed in high school. They further indicate that almost every one of these persons expressed a poignant regret at the loss either of friendship or, in some cases, of the continuation of the shared love never to be realized. What an intriguing thought it is, however, that many of us now have the adult resources to fulfill any lingering passion of our adolescence. I wonder how many people actually do.

What is most touching to me, however, is the deep caring many people have for particular classmates and the number of them who have the courage to express these feelings. I am amazed that these men had the courage to express their feelings. The following are examples classmates have shared.

Why didn’t you tell me how you felt about me?” was his question.

He admitted that he, as well as others, had been intimidated by me because they thought I was so smart that they were afraid to ask me for a date.                                                                  

You always were special to me.                                                                                             

I had a letter from him today in which he told me he had had such a crush on me in junior high.  A couple of years ago he told my daughter that he and I had dated, and sure enough, written on March 15, 1951, as only an 8th grader would write, is, “I do hope Bob likes me.  Lucille asked him if he likes me and he said, “She knows I do.” I hope he does.                                       

He thanked me for preparing special football scrapbooks, adding, “Thank you for all you are and do. This all goes to show what I said a long time ago—you scare me with all your smarts, talent, and energy. You bury me!!” I’m still not sure if that was a compliment.   

Personally the compliments I most treasure are from (1) those who told me I should have been our class president, (2) those who said the class had made a mistake electing the same male for four years, and (3) those who think I really was the class president. I hold to my heart being termed the “soul,” or the “memory keeper” of our class.

The photos you found hit me like a tsunami of time and memory. A collection of our youth and changes and how we all were integrated with each other, our families, and other friends. Thank you.               

One of the positive results of reunions is getting to know classmates better. By listening to them talk about how they saw themselves as teenagers we often can gain insight as to how they see themselves today. What is curious, however, is that while classmates seem to be willing to talk conversationally, many still hold back on discussing substantive topics or talking about anything personal. A few misunderstandings have been aired among our own class, but never quite to the point of resolution. And some misunderstandings never will be overcome, because the persons with the unresolved issues do not attend reunions.

How sweet and wonderful we all were, remembering and finding nice things about each other in our emerging selves.  It is heartwarming to share such memories of the tender time we passed through together.                                         

Every year, even prior to the reunion tours, I find myself imagining all of the local buildings as being the way they were in 1955, and I still get a lump in my throat on the last wide turn, under the railroad bridge, heading into Curwensville. The passenger train station is no longer standing, but I can’t help thinking of my Aunt Jessie waiting there in the summer of 1924, full of the sense of adventure as she headed to Clarion Normal School.

I don’t want to go back to Curwensville to live, but there is something compelling about the momentary sensation of thinking I am going home. The most difficult part of returning—every time—is the absence of the Teen-age Center, the Patton Building (our high school), and my family’s fine, late nineteenth century home on lower Thompson Street—all of which were razed.

However, every year we go back with heads full of pleasant memories, a few amusing stories to retell, and hearts full of goodwill. The most difficult time in recent years has been saying good-bye at the end of the week-end, wondering how many we will see again the next time. As one of the fellows wrote, after he had remained in Curwensville for another day after the reunion and then had taken a long, circuitous flight home the day following, “Things felt empty yesterday after you all left.”

My reply was, “It was empty also to those who left. I suddenly felt very lonely on the way home.”