Young Peeps

When I make the mistake of calling my father when he’s in the company of colleagues, his favorite routine is to pick up the phone and refer to me as “Homie-G.” He’ll then proceed to ask me “what up” and inquire as to whether I plan to “trip on E with some goths at a club.” His jarring mélange of ’90s cultural references, delivered with the absolute poise of a 50-something lawyer, never ceases to amaze and alarm (poor Mom).

While dear Daddy’s futile effort to feel the throbbing pulse of today’s “young peeps” may seem excessive, the archetypal image of a parent desperately trying to keep up with the times is nothing new. But neither is the idea of the anxious babes, attempting frantically to distance themselves from the parental units who house the loins from which they sprung.

We all swear we’ll never be our mothers.

In short, its not just syphilis that’s spreading unabated in this here town; it seems we’ve all come down with a debilitating case of “vis-à-vis” syndrome. Many a Sun article laments the quality of education at our school, not as an entity in and of itself, but “vis-à-vis” that of peer institutions. Similarly, much of the impetus behind our future plans [cue contraction of esophagus and existential angst] can be traced directly back to our resolute pledge to do things differently than ol’ Mom ’n’ Pop.

This leads us to two incongruous choices.

On the one hand, we can kick the shit out of our parents. [OK. Not literally; that would be abusive. I also have a sneaking suspicion that while my dad could be distracted by promises of Ecco Jeans and recordings of “the real Slim Shady,” my mom could actually take me.] Still, I constantly hear students laud their fail-proof method for surpassing the income level of their darling primary caregivers. Clue: first word is investment and [ode to the late Bear Stearns] second word rhymes with “tanking.”

On the other hand, we can accuse our parents of selling their baby-boom souls to The Man. Tossing around phrases like “anti-globalization” and “corporate culture” with determined disdain, we can embrace a life dedicated to pseudo-intellectual concepts of the “greater good.” Dammit! Our dads are tax lawyers, but we’re nuts for nonprofit. Our moms teach first graders, but if we slam poetry hard enough, we’ll knock sense into politicians.

As long as we consciously choose a different, more creative, markedly less lucrative (and decidedly more “tortured”) path, all is well.

But the collective horror of our generation looms large:

Mediocrity.

When was the last time you heard someone looking forward to sailing down Status Quo Street all the way to … the same house they grew up in? It doesn’t matter whether we beat our parents monetarily or in coolness [Note to Dad: coolness = “jigginess”], as long as we beat them by a margin wide enough to assuage our fears of inadequacy.

Still, I’m ever the wicked tease, so I’ll continue to fool myself.

I have joined the swelled mass of Cornellians who swear to roll both ways. We all know a few gals planning to hop on the hedge fund bandwagon. But — they swear — in ten years they’ll throw in the towel and start a charity for victims of something-or-other. We’re all friends with that over-aggressive Government major planning to fall into the cold embrace of corporate law. Don’t worry, though, because “at least half” of his work will be pro-bono.

[Note: I now confess my guilt. My name is Katie Engelhart, and I have taken the LSATs.]

What’s clear is that for most of us in the latter group, we’ll soon be reinforcing the palpable “Rags to Riches to Rags in Three Generations” phenomenon. To elaborate … Grandparents, Fritz and Helga, emigrate to the U.S. from comparatively disadvantaged country X. They work hard and hope for a bright tomorrow for children with names like Barbara and Steve. Barbara and Steve channel their parent’s depression-era work ethic to productive ends, become suburban accountants, and accumulate some wealth.

This is where we enter in. Barbara and Steve have kids Jeremy and Allie. Jeremy and Allie grow up in relative privilege. They prefer things like “life experience” and “socializing” to tangible travail. They pursue Masters Degrees in subjects that end with ‘ology’ and obscure careers in fields like “Music production.” In a cruel tribute to three generations of American dreaming, we throw it all away. [I’m terrified to see how our children, Madison and Dylan, turn out].

As much what we do, its how we do it that reveals our striking stubbornness. Cubicles? Hah! We’ll be damned if we end up plowing paperwork in a “cube farm.” We’re all for lefty-sounding “open-concept” offices, but we won’t be parking our behinds in the “Fidel Castro of office furniture.” We’re not going to give our best years toiling for companies that run their E-Boards like military juntas.

Even those of us who itch for more innovative jobs can’t reconcile ourselves to the ultimate truth that, in 20 years, we’ll be sitting in one of 40 identical cubicles decorated with pictures of snot-nosed infants and a drawer full of multi-colored Post-Its that we stole from the office supply room when the janitor (who earns a greater salary than we do) left the door unlocked … all while being forced to inhale the stench of tuna salad wafting over from the bossy bitch’s box down the hall.

It all boils down to a single word: comfort. Come on! We’ve all said it. “I don’t really care about money; I just want to be comfortable.” Or worse … “I’ll marry rich so I can take a job I enjoy and still be comfortable.”

[This leaves me most bitter. I fear that I’m uniquely vulnerable to the manipulation of a fine-looking free-rider who will scam me into supporting his indulgent lifestyle.]

In the end, all this talk of “comfort” gets me chasing cheap thrills. I think that’s why last week I got the Chinese symbol for “Inner Harmony” tattooed on my lower back. OK, so I didn’t do it. But I thought about it.

While I have another year of drowning my anxiety in the cozy comfort of college, many of my friends are less fortunate. I cannot offer seniors much advice, although a professional, scientific survey of my Mom inspires me to leave you with these parting words: “just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.” Just because you’re capable, it doesn’t mean you should necessarily pursue the most “competitive” line of work.

At the same time, try hard to steer clear of advice like that promised in the chorus of one of my father’s most quoted songs, sung by Canadian rapper Jelleestone: “Money can’t buy me happiness, but I’m happiest when I can buy what I can buy what I want …”

Katie Engelhart is a senior editor at The Sun. She can be contacted at kengelhart@cornellsun.com [1]. Don’t Kill the Messenger appeared alternate Tuesdays this semester.