Confessions of a Boomer (Sort Of)
On being born at the edge of a generation, living in the smoke of broken promises, and reaching for something better together.
Dear friends,
I’ve been sitting with this piece for a while—part reflection, part reckoning. As someone born in 1961, I’ve always felt like I was straddling two worlds: too young to be a true Boomer, too old to be Gen X. This is my attempt to name that in-between space, to own what we’ve inherited, and to imagine how we might still show up—for each other, and for those coming next.
I was born in 1961, which technically makes me a Baby Boomer. But I’ve never quite felt like one. I didn’t march in the ’60s or burn my draft card. I was still in grade school when Nixon resigned. By the time I came of age, the Summer of Love had faded into reruns, and the world felt less like a revolution and more like a recession.
I grew up watching the promises of my older peers unravel—idealism giving way to cynicism, community to consumerism. We were told we’d inherit a better world. Instead, we inherited the cleanup. In many ways, I feel more like Gen X: skeptical, self-reliant, quietly resilient. We didn’t start the fire, but we sure learned how to live in the smoke.
And now, as the planet warms and the culture wars rage, I find myself asking: what did we build, and what did we break? What do we owe the generations that follow?
The In-Between Years
We were the generation with one foot in the analog world and the other in the digital future. We learned to type on typewriters and troubleshoot dial-up. We memorized phone numbers and now ask Alexa for the weather. We watched the moon landing on black-and-white TVs and now carry the cosmos in our pockets.
We were raised on the promises of progress, but we came of age in its contradictions. We were told hard work would lead to security—but we saw pensions disappear, wages stagnate, and the cost of living outpace our dreams. We were taught to trust institutions, then watched them fracture under the weight of scandal, greed, and neglect.
And so we adapted. We became translators—between generations, between technologies, between worldviews. We learned to speak Boomer and Gen X, to nod along with Millennials, to marvel at Gen Z. We don’t always belong, but we often understand. And maybe that’s its own kind of power.
Bono—voice of a generation, bridge between many.
From stadium anthems to global justice, he reminded us that growing older doesn’t mean growing quiet.
“The world is more malleable than you think and it's waiting for you to hammer it into shape.”
—Bono
📼 Snapshots from the Middle
I voted for Bill Clinton and listened to U2 on cassette. I carried the Bono phone—that little red flip phone from (RED), because even my tech had to mean something.
I volunteered with Habitat for Humanity, hammer in hand, believing that shelter was sacred.
“We didn’t just talk about change—we picked up hammers and built it, one wall at a time.”
I was married the same year Diana married Charles—before we knew how fairy tales could fracture. My fairytale ended—not with a dramatic crash, but with a quiet unraveling. The kind you don’t notice at first, until the threads are too loose to hold.
I had friends who fought in the first Iraq war, and I remember exactly where I was when the Berlin Wall came down. I didn’t just witness the computer revolution—I studied it. I became a COBOL programmer, one of the many who helped build the digital scaffolding of the world we live in now.
These aren’t just memories. They’re markers. Proof that we’ve lived through tectonic shifts—cultural, political, technological—and we’re still standing. Still evolving.
“Me in Dane County, Wisconsin—construction coordinator for Habitat for Humanity. Behind every frame and foundation was a belief: that everyone deserves a place to call home.”
🗳️ Hope, Hammer, and History
I worked to help elect the first African American President, and I worked even harder for the dream of a woman in the White House. Not because I believed any one person could fix everything—but because I still believe in the power of representation, of possibility, of progress that bends slowly but surely toward justice.
These weren’t just political moments. They were personal. They were the culmination of decades of watching, waiting, and working. They reminded me that hope isn’t naïve—it’s necessary. And that even when the arc doesn’t bend fast enough, we still have to put our hands on it.
I’ve seen dreams take root in the world—and in my own family. My first cousin, Larry Krasner, became the District Attorney of Philadelphia. I’ve watched with pride as he’s worked to reform a system that too often punishes poverty and perpetuates injustice.
From ending cash bail for nonviolent offenses to holding law enforcement accountable, Larry has shown that change isn’t just possible—it’s personal. His work reminds me that justice isn’t an abstract idea. It’s a daily practice. A choice. A calling.
“Me and my cousin Larry in Germantown, PA—before the headlines, before the office. Just two kids, one from Philly, the other from Illinois, and I standing on the edge of what would become a justice movement. I’ve always been proud of him. Still am.”
🎤 The Bridge We Can Be
From stadium anthems to global justice—proof that growing older doesn’t mean growing quiet.
I don’t want to defend the past. I want to help repair the future.
If being in-between has taught me anything, it’s that listening is more powerful than legacy. That humility is more useful than nostalgia. That the best thing we can offer the next generation isn’t advice—it’s space.
So to those coming up behind us: I’m not here to lecture. I’m here to learn. I’m here to lend what I can—my voice, my vote, my resources, my time. I’m here to say that not all Boomers are clinging to the past. Some of us are trying, quietly and earnestly, to build a bridge forward.
🌱 A Call to Solidarity
I don’t claim to speak for a generation. I can only speak from the fault lines of my own experience—born into the tail end of the Boom, shaped by the shadows of Gen X, and now watching the world tilt on its axis as younger voices rise with urgency and fire.
What I’ve learned from standing in the middle is this: every generation inherits both a burden and a gift. Ours was the burden of disillusionment, the gift of perspective. Yours may be the burden of collapse—but also the gift of reinvention.
We need each other. Not as caricatures, not as hashtags, but as collaborators. The future isn’t a solo act—it’s a chorus. And if we’re willing to listen across the years, to speak with care and courage, we might just find harmony in the dissonance.
So here’s my confession, and my commitment: I don’t want to be remembered for what we consumed, but for what we tried to restore. I want to be part of the generation that reached back—not to pull others down, but to lift them up.
If you’re building something better, I’m here.
If you’re marching, I’ll carry water.
If you’re dreaming, I’ll help clear the path.
Not to lead. Just to walk beside you.
We may not have started the fire.
But we can still help tend the flame.
“In my arms was a little boy in Pakistan—his legs weakened by polio, a disease nearly erased elsewhere but still haunting children here. Not because of medicine’s failure, but because of fear. Superstition and misinformation have kept vaccines at bay, and with them, hope.”
💬 Let’s Talk
Were you born on the generational edge too?
Do you feel like a bridge—or like you’re stuck between two worlds?
What do you think we owe each other now?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Let’s build the bridge together.