Buried in a box within the depths of a cupboard, beneath notes and mementos from our early relationship, lies a mixed tape. I crafted it for my partner during those thrilling early days, a time filled with butterflies and excitement. Each song holds significance, telling a story through the carefully chosen A side and B side titles. Seventeen years later, this mixed tape remains a tangible artifact of our love, worthy of a spotlight in the museum of our relationship.
It struck me that my children will never experience the exhilarating rush of emotions when someone gifts them a mixed tape. They won’t find themselves perched on their beds, listening to a tape created by a crush, tracing the handwriting and contemplating the silent spaces between tracks. If you belong to a certain generation, you likely remember the meticulous task of simultaneously pressing pause and record, striving to avoid the awkward silence that could occur while flipping sides or waiting for the radio to resume its programming.
I like to think that kids still compile songs for friends and crushes, yet the concept of a Spotify playlist stored in the Cloud seems to lack the same depth. Although it exists, that ethereal nature diminishes its reality. In twenty years, there will be no physical artifact to showcase in their personal museums.
Similarly, my kids won’t know the feeling of lounging with their legs draped over a door frame, the phone cord pulled tightly as they share secrets and dreams into the mouthpiece. They’ve grown up in an era of instant playback and binge-watching, where waiting for a favorite show is a foreign concept. They’ll never sip ginger ale in a school nurse’s office while waiting for a parent to answer a phone call.
They won’t recognize the distinct scent of freshly mimeographed paper or the anticipation of waiting for it to dry, fearing the ink will smudge across their fingers. They’ll never get to soar through the air when someone gives them a little too much of a push on the seesaw or be swung by their ankles high above the asphalt during recess.
They will miss the thrill of racing to grab the house phone, hoping it’s the girl they just handed their number to on a torn piece of notebook paper. They’ll never send film canisters through the mail, risking a summer’s worth of memories with friends. The experience of taking a typing test with a trash bag over their hands or the nostalgic sound of a carriage return will elude them, as will the familiar scent of Wite-out and the frustration of starting over after a mistake.
They won’t hear the unmistakable sound of a dial-up connection or a busy signal. A letter in the mail will be a rarity, as will the experience of a road trip sprawled out in the back seat of a car. The thrill of flipping through an Encyclopedia set or the sweet agony of navigating a card catalog will be lost on them. They won’t have to get up to change the channel or hold their bladder until the commercials.
They won’t enter a store with a note from their mother to buy a pack of cigarettes, nor will they flip through LPs in a record shop or know the intricacies of rewinding a cassette. The exhilaration of a game of Pong and the accidental satisfaction of hitting an opponent in Dodgeball will remain foreign to them.
The art of cursive writing and the distinct smell of Noxema on a sunburn will never touch their lives. They won’t know the scent of Love’s Baby Soft or the hours spent perfecting the flick of a wrist to achieve the perfect feathered bangs. Classic Judy Blume books won’t carry the same shock value, and stories like “Flowers in the Attic” will feel mild. They won’t recognize the significance of characters like Ponyboy Curtis or Jake Ryan, nor will they understand the magic of a Saturday morning detention with an unexpected mix of classmates.
In this digitally-tracked, tweet-filled world, their lives may be chronicled in ways we never imagined. However, they will experience love and friendship in new, profound ways, forging connections that transcend our generation. They are growing up in a world where acceptance is more prevalent, where hashtags can ignite movements, and where the world feels increasingly smaller.
Perhaps their personal artifacts will find a home somewhere in the Cloud, accessible through virtual reality glasses. But they will never own a mixed tape. And for that, I feel a sense of nostalgia for what we had.
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In summary, while our kids will navigate a world vastly different from ours, filled with technological advancements and new forms of connection, they will miss out on the tangible, heartfelt experiences that defined our youth.