The workday is rough, human beings act like beasts sometimes, wolves in sheep’s clothing to be exact, and I sink into the sofa in my daughter’s room. She knows me too well. “You okay, Mama?”
I tell her all about it, my 16-year-old who speaks, on nights like tonight for instance, with a wisdom (and wit) beyond her years. She hears me out, makes me laugh despite myself in between my narration of the events of the past few days (yes, it was THAT kind of week). I listen to her speak and I do not know how they (their generation) manage to seem wiser, more sophisticated, more opinionated, more brave than the 16-year-olds of my time.
My generation did not reason things out with adults; we smiled through fat tears, stood in the corner submissively when we were ordered to by parents, hid life’s pains even as we felt them through the pages of a diary or bent the ears of our best friend. The children now are allowed — no, even encouraged I would say — to speak it all out. To say it as it is, call out an erring adult if need be; they even weigh in on issues of national interest. Maybe that is why they are less fearful, more objective, less emotional. Because they are encouraged to communicate, not leave it all bottled up.