Freedom

The ChickieNob was going to the Barbie movie with a friend, and I was going to dinner with a friend a block away, so they caught a ride with me. It was nice to drive with kids in the car again.

After the movie, I asked them about that line that keeps getting repeated on social media: “We mothers stand still, so our daughters can look back to see how far they’ve come.” It’s obviously about the individual journey: letting go of your parents’ hands and walking forward on your own path. It hits close to home right now. But it led to a conversation about how each generation becomes defined and the next one moves forward, defining itself.

And I pointed out that they are the first generation I can think of that have it worse than their mothers.

It was easier for my generation than my mother’s generation. We could get a credit card in our name and have legal, safe abortion. Just to name two things. They nodded, and her friend said, “Well, yeah. That.” But the more significant thing was that we had true freedom in that I could go where I wanted to go and do what I wanted to do. If those moments were documented at all, they were solely for the pleasure of the people in the group and lived on in paper photos or scraps of paper.

I’m not saying that people never endured their worst moments living on forever, but the scope of the damage was fairly small. A circle of friends. A town. I was free to make decisions and not think about how they may be interpreted a year, five years, or ten years down the road. No one knew what I looked like unless they met me or a mutual friend showed them a picture. I knew — pretty much — who knew me. Or knew of me.

That’s the thing about letting go of someone’s hand and moving forward. Are you free to become yourself — to find yourself with mistakes and all — if you trade your parents’ watchful eyes for the watchful eyes of smartphones and CCTV?

It was food for thought.