Tucked away in a box, lost among letters and notes from our early days together, lies a mixed tape I crafted for my partner, Alex. Back in those days filled with excitement and nerves, I aimed to impress him more than anything else. Each track on that tape holds a special meaning, telling stories through the A side and B side titles. Seventeen years later, that mixed tape remains a cherished relic of our relationship, deserving a spotlight in the museum of our love.
I’ve realized my children will never experience the thrill and nervousness that comes with receiving a mixed tape. They won’t know the joy of listening to a tape made by a crush while lounging on their beds. They’ll miss out on holding it in their hands, studying the handwriting, and deciphering the pauses and silence between songs. If you grew up during the cassette era, you likely remember the meticulous effort of pressing pause and record at just the right moment or trying to avoid awkward silences while flipping sides or waiting for the DJ to get back to the Top 40 hits.
I like to think that kids today still create playlists for their friends and crushes. Yet, the idea of a Spotify playlist stored in the Cloud somehow feels less tangible—more like a fleeting idea than a heartfelt gift. In twenty years, their personal museums may lack the physical artifacts that tell their stories.
Similarly, my kids won’t know the experience of sitting with their legs draped over a door frame, the phone cord stretched tight as they gossip and share secrets into the receiver. They’ve grown up with a world of pause, fast forward, and binge-watching, never knowing the anticipation of waiting for their favorite show to come on.
They’ll never sip on ginger ale in the nurse’s office because Mom isn’t home to take the school’s call. The sharp scent of freshly mimeographed paper will be a foreign concept to them; they won’t even know to wait a moment for it to dry to avoid purple ink stains on their fingers. The adrenaline of flying through the air as someone bumps you on a see-saw or swinging by your ankles above the ground at recess will be lost on them.
They won’t race to grab the house phone, hoping it’s the girl they just gave their number to on a crumpled piece of notebook paper. They’ll never send film canisters off in the mail, risking a summer’s worth of memories captured with friends at the FotoMat. Typing tests with trash bags over their fingers? A thing of the past. The smell of Wite-out or the frustration of pulling a page out to start all over again will never be part of their lives.
They won’t hear the unmistakable sound of a dial-up connection or the annoyance of a busy signal. The anticipation of waiting for a letter or the experience of a road trip sprawled out in the back seat will be lost on them. They won’t sift through the pages of an Encyclopedia set or endure the sweet torture of a card catalog.
They’ll never have to get up to change the channel, tune a radio station, or hold their bladder until the commercial break. The experience of buying cigarettes with a note from their mother, flipping through LPs in a record store, or having a librarian stamp their borrowed books will be foreign to them. They might not even appreciate the groundbreaking graphics of Pong.
The thrill of accidentally on purpose hitting the girl you dislike during a game of Dodgeball won’t be part of their school experience. They won’t develop callouses on their fingers from hours spent perfecting their cursive handwriting. The scent of Noxema on a sunburn or the ritual of slathering baby oil to achieve the perfect tan will be things they’ll never know. They’ll miss out on the distinct smell of an Ogilvy perm, the sweetness of Love’s Baby Soft, and the painstaking effort spent perfecting that feathered bang.
Classic novels like Judy Blume’s works won’t hold the same shock value for them, and “Flowers in the Attic” will seem mild compared to their reality. They won’t recognize the names Ponyboy Curtis or Jake Ryan, nor will they know what transpired in detention one fateful Saturday morning when a jock, an athlete, a brain, a princess, and a basket case all came together.
It’s possible their lives won’t have a moment that isn’t tracked, tweeted, or electronically monitored. Yet, they will know love and friendship in their unique ways. They will have access to new and improved methods of connection, growing up in a world where acceptance is more common and where hashtags can mobilize movements.
While their memories may be stored in the Cloud, perhaps their personal artifacts will be accessible through advanced technology. But one thing is certain – they’ll never hold a mixed tape in their hands like we did. And for that, I’m grateful we still have ours.