I was born in 1978, part of the final generation that truly remembers what liberty felt like. We drank from garden hoses, ate candy cigarettes designed to groom us into future smokers, and survived on pudding pops and Hot Pockets. Gen X loves to list these nostalgic markers, but they’re not what truly define us.
What sets us apart is our unwavering optimism. We believed our actions mattered—that if we collected enough cereal box tops, we could boost our school’s budget. PBS told us that the shows we loved were “made possible by viewers like you,” and we believed it. When Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder joined a chorus of stars for We Are the World, we were convinced their song had ended hunger in Ethiopia. As we grew older, that same optimism morphed into the belief that enough crowdfunding, enough online petitions, enough “giving a damn” could solve anything.
But now, in middle age, we’re learning that our optimism may have been more mirage than miracle. Around the globe, authoritarian governments are consolidating power, stripping away the freedoms our parents and grandparents fought for. And it feels like there’s nothing we can do about it. That is a devastating reality to face.
Recently, I was scrolling Threads when I saw a post that pierced me:
“Overwhelmed lately by the implications of what it means to live on a planet where the vast majority of us want these multiple genocides to end and we seemingly can’t do a fucking thing to stop them.”
He meant Gaza, Haiti, Sudan, Congo, Papua New Guinea—and likely other places so remote or underreported that their suffering is invisible to mainstream media.
And here’s the hard truth: Gen X was not built for war. We were taught to maintain the fragile peace heralded by the Boomer generation through anti-bullying campaigns, catchy slogans, and after-school programs. For us, brutality was passé; dialogue was supposed to be enough. But how do you reason with brutal, fascist regimes—like the one currently ruling the United States—whose goals include rewriting history, erasing “offensive” truths, and, if necessary, erasing entire populations?
History tells us that such regimes cannot be reasoned with. Churchill’s generation understood that only equal or greater force can stop them. But as a generation, we’re unprepared for that kind of fight. Clever memes and social media takedowns are not the tools that will reclaim our democracies.
The January 6th rioters, however misguided and manipulated, demonstrated something uncomfortable: they were willing to sacrifice their freedom and dignity to make their presence felt in the halls of power. If we are to stop the slide into global fascism, it will require coordinated, sustained action and civil disobedience on a scale that will cost us dearly. Appealing to our oppressors’ “better nature” is pointless. They have none.
The weight of this reality became painfully personal when my eldest child—now a first-year university student—took to social media to plead for the life of Marcellus Williams. Williams was executed by lethal injection in Missouri in September 2024 after the U.S. Supreme Court denied a stay. His conviction had been questioned by a prosecutor, and his case, like that of Troy Davis before him, raised disturbing questions about executing potentially innocent people. Appeals cited new evidence, alleged jury bias, and contamination of the murder weapon. Even the victim’s family asked that Williams be spared. The state executed him anyway.
Watching my child beg for mercy online—knowing the likely outcome—was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. The state’s message was clear: resistance is futile. Mercy will not be granted.
These aren’t isolated events. They are signals. I believe the dress rehearsal for totalitarianism is over.
History is cyclical, and the patterns are here again: scapegoating vulnerable groups, dismantling independent institutions, normalizing state violence, and cultivating a climate of fear. History also shows us what it takes to stop such movements—but the cost is steep. Steeper than most of us are willing to imagine.
Yet the cost of doing nothing is worse.
Gen X grew up believing that collective goodwill could change the world. And maybe, in moments, it can. But the threats we face now—systemic, global, and armed—will not be toppled by good intentions alone. If we want a different future for our children, it will require more than hashtags, more than symbolic boycotts, more than hoping someone else will fix it. It will demand action at a scale that scares us.
Our optimism is not useless. It can still be a weapon—but only if we temper it with the realism that some things will not change without confrontation. We may not be ready for the fight ahead. But neither were the generations before us, until they realized they had no choice.
The question now is whether we will face that truth before it is too late. I really hope it’s not too late…
