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All week long I’ve been listening to these morning NPR segments about Millennials, mostly tech Mellennials, and getting annoyed at how celebratory and silly the stories have been, and today, listening to another radio story, I come to find out, that I am one. The story included an interview with a thirty-two year-old jewelry designer, with eighteen employees, and I realized that the term “Millenials” could mean anyone born in the years between the 1980s-early 2000s. So, Generations X and Y and….what, Z? Here I’ve been thinking that “Millennials” means my students, but turns out, it means all of us who grew up with some kind of computing. That seems like too broad a category. The money-making twenty year-olds, those app-making kids, and even the thirty-someting social-media advertisers are certainly different generations. And I don’t feel like I belong to either. What is my generation? I’d like some specificity on that point. I don’t want to be lumped in with my students. I want my own generation.
It is the last day of our school’s first trimester. We used to function on a quarter system, so this is a much-welcomed break. We also had a gathering of colleagues tonight at our home, which was super fun. I really, truly love my boss and my co-workers. They are the smartest people I know.
So, what to poem tonight? I haven’t even really had time to think about it, but I did have a conversation tonight about depressed poets, and it kind of went, “I think that if Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf could’ve just gone rafting together they would’ve been fine.” That’s probably true. I still don’t know what to poem tonight, but I’m going to try to combine Millennials, Emily Dickinson, and Virginia Woolf, and put them on a raft. That seems like a good enough challenge for this evening.
So A Raft
So Virginia Woolf and Emily Dickinson were in this raft, along the Middle Fork of the Flathead, and their outfitter was this blonde, and they both felt this rocky tug from the ground.
Like rushing water heard from the outside. Like the calling. Like the words they each wanted to whisper: “let’s go home.” Could we make up a paddle, like that’s where everyone should land?
Could we fill these sleeves with pebbles, and ripple into the distance? Maybe, may I, I will hold your hand until we reach the bottom, the silty sand and the earth that holds without hesitation.
We could sink here in the riverbed.
Goodness. They sure despise them, the Milennials, who were the most aware babes in the age of terror, and who still managed to kill phantoms.
They counted upon that generation, the most lost. And after, they generously waited upon the providence. It was not the rocks that beckoned them both down,
and it was not the burial of these earth-bound feet, it was just a simple promise, that the water offered. It was just the promise of going overboard.
Here’s a silly Thursday poem. I do love my colleagues and friends for proposing the idea of Woolfie and emdicks in a poem-raft together. They are all so great. Happy Thursday, my people of poems.