As a sixty-seven-year-old "boomer," having no mentor, I fall into the Zoomer category.
An excerpt from my prologue:
Dad was seventy-nine years old. I hadn’t seen my parents for fourteen months. During the past twenty years, since I had moved away, that had been about average.
Late one weekend afternoon, before the onset of that disengagement in 1978, Dad and I were sitting in the television room of my parents’ Manhattan apartment. He had been telling me about his new insurance policy that the family business was paying for. Dad wasn’t the type to sit me down for conversation, so I listened with some awkwardness. His hands caressed the cushioned arms of the French Regency armchair as he spoke. His back was to the window, which framed him in a subdued, hazy light. He seemed self-assured, knowing he would have securities to leave behind. He drifted for a moment; the fingers of his right hand began rubbing the wood of the armrest, where the arm cushion gave way to the bones of the chair. His blue eyes became soft and reflective. After a few seconds, he summed up.
“Ya know, I’m worth more to you dead than alive.”
I was a defining moment. I remained motionless. But something rumbled inside of me, like a ghost, only I had conversation with. Yeah, I know, but that’s how he is.
As a baby-boomer, I was aware of the generation-gap, but knowing isn’t resolving. I couldn’t reconcile money as the currency of love. Other things unsettled me as well. It wasn’t only the void of never feeling accepted by my father. I had needed the engagement of a mentor, someone who could teach me the tools I needed to succeed in my version of life. His footsteps were not mine to follow.
Three years after that disclosure, when he retired, his partners in the family business didn’t extend the insurance policy. To me, this vindicated my vision of life over his. Relationships are our securities, not policies.
As a sixty-seven-year-old "boomer," having no mentor, I fall into the Zoomer category.
An excerpt from my prologue:
Dad was seventy-nine years old. I hadn’t seen my parents for fourteen months. During the past twenty years, since I had moved away, that had been about average.
Late one weekend afternoon, before the onset of that disengagement in 1978, Dad and I were sitting in the television room of my parents’ Manhattan apartment. He had been telling me about his new insurance policy that the family business was paying for. Dad wasn’t the type to sit me down for conversation, so I listened with some awkwardness. His hands caressed the cushioned arms of the French Regency armchair as he spoke. His back was to the window, which framed him in a subdued, hazy light. He seemed self-assured, knowing he would have securities to leave behind. He drifted for a moment; the fingers of his right hand began rubbing the wood of the armrest, where the arm cushion gave way to the bones of the chair. His blue eyes became soft and reflective. After a few seconds, he summed up.
“Ya know, I’m worth more to you dead than alive.”
I was a defining moment. I remained motionless. But something rumbled inside of me, like a ghost, only I had conversation with. Yeah, I know, but that’s how he is.
As a baby-boomer, I was aware of the generation-gap, but knowing isn’t resolving. I couldn’t reconcile money as the currency of love. Other things unsettled me as well. It wasn’t only the void of never feeling accepted by my father. I had needed the engagement of a mentor, someone who could teach me the tools I needed to succeed in my version of life. His footsteps were not mine to follow.
Three years after that disclosure, when he retired, his partners in the family business didn’t extend the insurance policy. To me, this vindicated my vision of life over his. Relationships are our securities, not policies.