The Real Generational Divide
Given I’m a casual writer at best, I’d be on shaky ground picking fault with anyone who actually writes for a living. But I’ve only had one coffee today so I’m going to go there anyhow: one of the laziest journalistic tropes of the week ( / month / year / decade) is generation wars.
I’m sure you’ve noticed it too. For some reason, there is enduring mileage in column inches and click-farming social media posts on why Gen Z is the most self-involved that ever there was, or how Boomers have pulled the ladder up behind themselves; why Gen X is just bemused and can’t work PDFs, while Millennials are quite frankly selfish a-holes who won’t have enough in their pensions because of all the avocados and flat whites.
No matter how often this kind of article is posted, the comments sections are flooded with defenders-of-the-ages, keen to defend the honour of their generation. Facebook does seem to be primary breeding ground for such shenanigans, and given the user demographic for that particular platform skews older, it’s perhaps unsurprising that the comments are weighted heavily towards the “in MY day” crew. You know the type: “we only went home when the streetlights came on, no-one knew where we were, there were only three channels on the TV and we got smacked up and down the street if we dared give cheek to our elders, we were SO HAPPY” — those ones.
I’m sure there’s all sorts of reasons why people will attack or defend entire generations, throwing down sweeping generalisations and a whole lot of white-washing speculation in the process. There’s the tribe mentality, of course: drawing arbitrary lines between ‘us’ and ‘them’, creating illusory safe spaces for ourselves within a larger group that we hope will defend us when The Young Enemy comes a-calling.
Or perhaps it’s the sepia-tinting of memory that buffs away the hard truths — those fondly-remembered days of street-games back in ye olde yore may skim over the top of a whole lot of poverty, neglect, abuse and boredom, while the sharper focus of current generational pastimes are just that little bit easier to assess and criticise.
But I think if we’re honest, it’s because most of us think that our own generation more or less gets it right. The correct attitudes to finance, free time, hobbies, education, child-rearing, social issues, employment, and politics. When we see our own views reflected back to us, we feel validated. And where are we more likely to see those who hold similar opinions than on social media, where our network is broadly self-selected, and the algorithm pushes ever more related content into our field of vision?
Whatever the reasons for generational competitiveness, there appears to be an unending determination to draw out these lines — to identify who’s in and who’s out, the originals versus the pretenders. It’s all pageview grist to the digital advertiser’s mill.
But, friend, you can rest easy. I believe I have identified the most accurate line of demarcation between generations. I know the true before and after. And it’s not determined by whether you regularly worship at the altar of brunch, type Amen on twee inspirational quote-pictures, or share lost dog posts from Arizona just in case Buster turns up in the outskirts of Coatbridge. No: it’s whether you remember these.
Kelloggs cereal bike spoke reflectors — from Reddit r/nostalgia
Not just remember as in ‘you’ve seen a picture or two on a nostalgia account’, or your uncle told you about them, at length, over Christmas dinner while downing his fourth spicy mimosa. I mean that you remember the visceral thrill of pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and willing that plastic reflector to tip out along with your Frosties.
Ludicrous concept, really, when viewed with 2023 eyes. The potential for cross-contamination, shards of broken plastic, cracked teeth, and sibling mutilations in the rush to pour the lucky bowl? Recipe for utter carnage. And yet despite the hindsight of potential legal headaches, I believe these toys may have been one of the last true neutral marketing techniques our society has seen.
No sign-ups, no data exchanged, no need to send off a stamped self-addressed envelope (the logistics of which always challenged my young mind). Just the anticipation of knowing that at some point, somewhere in the days between opening the box of cereal and the last dusty remnants being poured, someone in the house was going to be The Winner.
Perhaps if you were an only child, the thrill was lessened. Did the peril of competition increase the value of the spoils? I have no idea how my parents kept their cool when trying to keep track of who got the toy last time and who had more of them on their bike spokes already and whose birthday was closer and who had behaved better in the car yesterday and, all of this, undercaffeinated, at breakfast time? Goodness. Extreme sports.
It wasn’t only reflectors, of course. Pencil toppers, small games, mini water pistols, and spoons (colour-changing and regular versions), were also potential rewards for the dedicated breakfaster. It’s hard to underestimate the immediacy, the physicality of the item. In a world of Amazon, Uber and Tesco deliveries, it’s been a long time since we either had no option other than to go to an actual shop, or to utilise a mail-order catalogue (Index, for preference) and wait weeks, rather than days, for delivery of our bounty. It’s not that we were deprived of toys, you understand — far from it — but kids are impatient. The possibilities of what could appear from the Frosties box right then? Electric. The fact that the cereal box had to have been purchased from a shop in the first place by someone who went out for the messages in order for the cornflakes to actually be in the house passed me by entirely. Kids are impatient, AND oblivious.
It’s been over a decade since the last cereal was fortified by toys. Choking hazards, cross-contaminations, and capitalism’s ever-growing rapacity conspired to ensure that no Gen Z, Alpha, or their offspring will ever know the pure happiness of that moment. Some adults still cannot move past the loss; making a hobby out of tracking down vintage items to add to their collection.
I get it, to be honest. It might have been the last semi-virtuous marketing technique, locking in brand loyalty, but it was also a sure thing. The toys were guaranteed (or at least they were if you got there before your siblings). With fewer off-brands available then, if you could afford the cereal, you got the toy. No games of chance, no codes to check, no searching bags for a heart-shaped crisp (wtf, Walkers?!). Just a brightly-coloured moment of collectible joy. Mornings would be the better for it.
© Fiona McDerment, 2023. All rights reserved.
Article originally published via Medium - visit my profile here