How did We Get Here?

 Disclaimer: This post may be a windy and discursive path that leads to nowhere. I'm trying to untangle a complicated knot in my mind, and I know I'm not alone in the labyrinth, so if you are up to it, let's go together. 

What is the complicated knot? I'm struggling to even name it, but let's go with entitlement for now. 

Entitlement. As in, you've been born with a title: Lord, Prince, King, Queen, Earl, Princess, Lady. You've done nothing to earn or deserve the title. You had the good fortune of being born in the right place at the right time to the right parents. That's it. 

Titles are tricky, right? Some in history have used their titles to manipulate and control and extort. Others have used them to protect and liberate and empower.

Here in America, we aren't born with titles . . . exactly. We are born into privileged positions, into socioeconomic subsets that can influence the course of our lives. What I've noticed in some socioeconomic groups is a growth in entitlement, the mindset that others "owe" us. 

(I told you this was complicated!) 

Now, I am not a fan of sweeping generalizations, so you won't find them in my writing. I've intentionally used qualifiers like "some" and "can influence," as opposed to "all" and "determine." To be sure, not ALL Americans in certain socioeconomic groups are entitled. But, some are. I want to share my observations and experiences, and that's all they are. 

Let's go back to 1998, shall we? 

In 1998, I graduated high school. When I was in high school, we were required to wear gym uniforms. They were hideous, of course. I think there was a pamphlet called How to Humiliate Teenagers that was passed around by gym teachers in the 90s, covering topics like uniforms, group showers, and obstacle courses. Our uniforms consisted of a pair of red shorts that came modestly to the knee and a double-sided cotton (read: stifling, unbreathable) t-shirt that could be worn on the red side, or -- wait for it -- the gray side, depending on which team you were on (anyone else picked last every time? I think "Enlisting Popular Team Captains to Further Humiliate the Losers" was a section of the pamphlet). 

So, every time we had gym class, we had to go into the locker rooms, change our clothes in front of each other, and then report to our spots on the gym floor (not kidding) for attendance and warm up exercises. In my memory, gym class largely consisted of an endless unit of volleyball, followed by an unannounced week of "Running the Mile" (another section of the pamphlet, I am sure), and a few weeks of a torturous obstacle course involving attempting to climb a rope to the ceiling. No lie, the entire class watched as one student went through the obstacle course at a time. 

I am entirely aware that this description of my late-90s gym class probably sounds cushy to those who graduated in the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s . . . and probably sounds abusive to those currently enrolled in high school. Perspective is funny, isn't it?

Why did I just punish myself (and by extension you, Dear Reader) with this traumatic trip down Memory Lane? Here is what did NOT happen in 1998:

* My mother did not call the school to complain about my ugly gym uniform and demand a new, more flattering one -- or better yet, the right to wear whatever we wanted. 

* My father did not attend a school board meeting to accuse the school administration of being incompetent because the gym uniform had not yet been changed. 

* No one took to social media to launch a hateful campaign, railing against the ugly gym uniforms their precious children were being forced to wear in school. 

(OK, social media didn't exist, unless you count AOL Chatrooms, but you get the point.)

* My peers and I didn't refuse to wear the uniforms, telling our teachers, "You can't make me." Some didn't dress for gym, sure. They also failed gym. No parents called to complain about that, either. 

I have little memory of the gym uniforms being a "thing." I probably complained about how ugly they were to my mom. She probably said, "Get over it." And I did. We all did. 

Fast forward to 2021. 

Last week, in my hometown, our high school football team ran out on the field in new, bright-yellow uniforms. Our typical colors have evolved over the years to a Michigan Look-Alike: navy blue, with the big gold M that has subtly replaced the Native American Warrior head of yesteryear. Bright yellow isn't what the crowd is used to. 

In line at the game, I texted a friend associated with the team and asked about the new uniforms. I learned they were ordered for the Gold Out game the previous week, which raises awareness for Childhood Cancer. The Gold Out has become hugely popular in our town. The uniforms arrived late, so the team wore them that night instead. I shared this information with those around me in line, and the general consensus was, "Oh, isn't it great that the team wanted to do something for the Gold Out? The color is more bright than I'd expect, but hey! Go Warriors!" 

The next day, I came across a Facebook post made by the Varsity Club, excitedly announcing the new uniforms. Then, I broke my own rule and Read. The. Comments. 

Now, most of the time, I simply roll my eyes at the Keyboard Crusaders. 

But other times . . . I decide to respond.  This was one of those times. 

This was one of those times that the aforementioned entitled voices were becoming so loud that they were drowning out the supportive, reasonable voices. Let's be clear -- this wasn't about liking the yellow color. It's possible to not prefer a shade of yellow without being mean. Confession: I am partial to a more gold shade. But, I am not wearing the uniform. For me, the symbolism of the color meant far more than its hue. 

After posting my thoughts (then making the post public, so as to be shared, as requested), I was glad I jumped into the fray. I've lost track of how many supportive comments and texts I received about my post. I learned even more about the uniforms, about the years of fundraising that went into purchasing them, about the boys' excitement to unveil their Gold Out uniforms for the community. I also learned that the comments that made their way to Facebook paled in comparison to the hate that spewed to the faces of dedicated parent volunteers -- and sadly, to the boys themselves. 

Over a yellow uniform. 

How did we collectively get here? To this complicated knot we are tangled in, with some folks seeing the bigger picture and choosing to send love out into the world, with some so blind that they believe a bright yellow shirt is a serious problem. 

Despite possible appearances, I am a proponent of critical thinking and questioning public institutions. Someone probably should have asked some questions about what was happening in my gym classes. Not thrown a fit about the uniforms, but taken a closer look at curriculum and instruction. We should not be an unthinking populace. We must examine who has power and why, who is marginalized and why. We need to hold leaders and institutions accountable. In fact, my post about the uniforms generated some great questions about the financial elements of our Gold Out and even the complications of ordering mass quantities of personalized uniforms. That's the kind of social engagement we need more of. 

These same people commenting were likely the same people whose mothers likely told them to "Get over it" when they complained about ugly gym uniforms. What happened to them? I'm not asking rhetorically. I truly wonder how we've arrived where we are. 

I typically like to conclude with some pithy thought that ties up all the threads I've been weaving. This time, though, I've only untangled a strand or two, and I can't ignore the rest of the messy knot that remains. Expect me to return to this topic again and again -- more often with more questions than answers.