When we Baby Boomers and War Babies were children, everyone told us what to do.
Our parents didn’t seem to be at all interested in being our buddies. They had adult buddies, and they didn’t need us to be their friends. They had no trouble bossing us kids, they didn’t much care whether we liked it, and they didn’t worry that obeying authority would send us into therapy.
My dad never once whined to me in a store (as I often hear parents whining to their kids today), “Donna, pu-leeze don’t grab stuff off the shelves! Whyyy do you act like that? What have I done wrong as a dad?” If I got out of line in a store I got a serious look that led swiftly to a pop on the bottom if I didn’t correct my fast self. Daddy didn’t wonder why I was misbehaving. He just took action to correct me.
To this day, if I knock a shirt off a hanger in a store, I will pick it up and hang it back.
At school our teachers took the place of our parents, and they told us what to do between 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. They were not hampered by fears that their demands for correctly done, on-time homework would damage our delicate self-esteem. In fact, in those days, they had a right to damage something else if we put up too feisty an objection to their instructions.
And if we got a whipping at school, we got another one at home.
Even the paper towel dispenser at school told us what to do— “Rub, Don’t Blot.” I wasn’t sure why, but I rubbed and didn’t blot.
Our adult neighbors told me what to do. One dad told me to go home after his son and I had been playing in their yard all morning. Even though it was probably time, I got furious with him for being so dictatorial with me.
But I said nothing disrespectful to his face, and I went home. I didn’t retaliate except to stay mad at him for years.
None of these reactions from a 7 year old bothered Mr. Johnson in the least. Oddly, he didn’t seem to need my infantile approval to make his life complete.
On Saturdays, my Girl Scout leaders told me what to do. They never had to remind me or anyone else that the organization wasn’t for boys. The title was “Girl” Scouts, and we took that at face value and as an order. No boys. Don’t bother complaining about political correctness— that we needed to make room for boys who might want to put on little green dresses and learn flower arranging with us.
My first boss, a department store manager, seemed to think he too could tell me what to do, right down to what I could wear to work. I hated having to dress “professionally” every day in bland colors that wouldn’t compete with our merchandise. But since he was paying me, it never dawned on me to protest his right to tell me what to wear, when to work or how to work.
Because of my upbringing, I have never said, “Nobody’s gonna tell me what to do.” I stop at stop signs even when no one is coming. I have just gotten to the place where I don’t always follow the manufacturer’s directions to “hand wash.” I will actually rebel occasionally and put that shirt in the washer. But don’t tell anybody!
If you’re a Boomer, this makes sense to you. If you’re the child of a Boomer, it must all sound pretty confining. But, ironically, obeying authority is what prepared me for adulthood.
Instead of keeping me from thinking for myself, having so many people give me directions helped develop my analytical skills. I analyzed what I was told and often, grudgingly, found that the directions made sense. When they didn’t, I made a mental note to do things differently when it as my turn to decide.
Living around so many adult authorities gave me good role models. I learned that being an adult meant you had to know enough to tell other people what to do, so I tried to learn as much as I could. It also gave me a respect for authority that has kept me pretty much out of trouble all my life.
The adults in my life accepted their responsibility to show me my limits. They taught me how to take responsibility and be an authority figure when my time came...and that wasn’t when I was 10 years old.
Young people today are not as fortunate. Some wander in a wasteland of irresponsibility at home, where parents are afraid to say no to anything. At school their teachers have been made to fear lawsuits if they insist that students meet standards, and cops on the street fear losing their jobs for enforcing the law.
There’s a whole “nobody’s gonna tell me what to do” generation out there that is in for a shock when it’s their turn to be the parents, the teachers and the policemen. And it’s a shock that will hurt more than being told “no” now.
I sometimes wish I were back in kindergarten, where the teacher made us take a nap every day and insisted that we eat all of our pudding. I’d love to obey those rules!
