A Native Returns 3

A NATIVE RETURNS #3

As one generation succeeds another, members of the previous generation generally become quite critical of the actions and suspicious of the motives of their replacements. Quite often this criticism takes the form of ridiculing new fashions and different tastes.

Perhaps because of the proclivity of the news media to report the law breaking and violence of a small minority of teenagers and to say nothing of the wholesome majority, people tend to interpret the informal dress and loud music as a prelude to violence.

Most of us have conveniently short memories, but I remember very vividly the jazz, the plus fours, and the zoot suits of another day. Our elders, conveniently forgetting the Charleston (defined as a twisting dance step) and the roaring twenties (complete with short skirts), predicted dire things in our future.

In the light of the above, I have one basic comment to make to the youth of today, “You’ve come a long way, Baby, to get to the point where my critics were.”

Last Friday night, the junior class sponsored a dance, and any of you would have been proud of the way the students conducted themselves. To be sure, there was the usual imported electronic band turned up to 190 decibels accompanied by the raucous screeching of a girl with no voice and less clothing, but in the midst of the gyrating and twisting around the dance floor, the youngsters were courteous, relaxed, and full of fun.

The time of the dance seemed to be “Let’s have a good time.” As a chaperone, I was treated with courtesy and respect. My beanie (a hat required for admission) took some good-natured ribbing, and I wasn’t treated like a buddy, but no teenager in his right mind wants a fifty year old buddy. I must, however, leave you with one incident.

In order to protect the gym floor for its original purpose and to conserve the taxpayer’s dollars, we require that the dancers remove their shoes. I stepped onto the dance floor to remind one boy to remove his shoes.

While he went to the sidelines to get rid of the offending footwear, I chatted with his lovely partner. When he came back, I told him that I had protected his property from poachers and hadn’t run off with her myself.

“Take Her,” he offered, “you may have her.”
Now, I ask you, aren’t these people generous?