Beware, for the Gen-Z Approaches
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Gen-Z is here and I’ve met them. Face to face I’ve battled with them, and they are beginning to take over and with the mission of making you feel obsolete.
Last week I spent four days back in Lincoln, Nebraska, to help out at a High School Journalism Workshop. And it was there I encountered the Gen-Z in the true wild.
I’ve been teaching at high school journalism workshops for about 9 years now and at first glance, these batch of high schoolers seemed like all the others. They talked quite loudly, they spoke in coded inside jokes, they walked from dorms to the journalism school in tight packs of four or five. Drop these kids in 1972, 2001 or 2021 and the comforting, usual dance of high school mannerisms are the same.
But this — this is the first trick the Gen-Z’s pull. For they may look like us, but hark, they are just merely blending.
Things were tame until, after grooming us teachers into comfort for two days, I was ambushed.
The beauty of this workshop for me was that I was lucky enough to roam from class to class and help where I was needed. So I got to meet the graphic designers (moody, mysterious, quiet, dangerous), the editors (loud, passionate, bold, dangerous) and the writers (the loudest, most prying, most dangerous). I walked into the Journalistic Writing class on day two and was asked, quite aggressively, why it was I was wearing sandals.
It was 92 degrees outside. I explained as such.
“Well,” one shouted back, “we think that all you teachers were required to wear sandals. Because all of you are wearing sandals.”
I looked at the Journalistic Writing teacher. He shrugged with a “dude, this happens to me every day, just roll with it” look.
We were explained to by these small children that all of our sandals were out of touch and “weird.”
The snowball began rolling.
“And you’re wearing skinny jeans ,” one said, pointing directly to me.
Giggles.
Giggles?
“Yeah,” a front row writer said. “You look like every Hipster I Google from Chicago.”
More giggles. These hyenas were circling.
A friend of mine jokes that she knows by looking at photos when I started dating Molly because, all of a sudden, my jeans began to fit. Yes, I wear them a little skinny, but mostly because I have a twig-like figure that’s stayed with me all of my life, and I don’t particularly like looking like I’m wearing hand-me-downs or that I’m about to drop a mixtape with Usher in 2005.
But apparently, the skinny jeans were a mark. Because within the next hour, I was back in the designing room. As a way to make taking attendance a little less annoying, we had students go around the room and say who — of anyone in history — they’d want to see live in concert.
We had some good, strong answers early.
Queen.
Beck.
Yes, children. Yes.
But it devolved quickly.
Bella Poarch.
Arlo Parks.
ENHYPHEN?
No, children. What, children, what?
“I don’t know who any of these people are,” my co-teacher said.
“Me neither,” I said, looking around the room. “This is a very Gen-Z moment.”
Then, a quiet one (who you always have to look out for) shot me a look.
“Yeah, well, at least we’re not a Millennial like you.”
This room revealed itself to be a pack of hyenas, too. The giggles spread — and even my co-teacher joined this time. Et tu, Boomer?
An hour later I was helping one of these designers with a spread and was summoned to the Journalistic Writing Room and — feeling a little like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas — begrudgingly walked back into the den.
“We’re going to guess your sign,” one yelled at me.
“I can’t emphasize to you how little I think about —”
I was shushed. The 10 or so writers in the room suddenly talked in hushed tones, heads pushed close together. The room was a Family Feud team trying to steal points and make it to Fast Money.
A decision was reached.
A spokesman was selected. She stood.
“Aquarius.”
“Cancer,” I said, and the room erupted in what apparently that meant for me, my life, my dog, my future, their future, humanities chances of lasting beyond the century.
Now, why was this such a talking point? I cannot emphasize to you how little I understand.
Look, I knew the day was going to come when I was no longer in touch with the #youths of today, and honestly thought I did pretty well for a while. I downloaded Vine when it was out. I’ve got a Tik Tok (for lurking.) I like YA novels and movies. I don’t want to come across as shaking my cane on my lawn. But think of this more as my self-actualized realization that I’m no longer, ya know, in the youngest demographic in pop culture.
But this Special Alert today is for everyone, but particularly Millennials, so you know that these little gremlins are coming after us, too. We used to have to endure BuzzFeed and the New York Times with the wonderfully uplifting headlines like “These Millennials Are Ruining Baseball” or “Millennials Can’t Buy Houses Because They Like Avocado Toast” or “Millennials To Blame For Sun’s Constant Heat.”
But now, I want to warn you a second wave is coming. Who knows in what capacity. Maybe a Tik Tok dance. Maybe it’ll be written in the stars, maybe that’s why they’re so into the damn signs.
But it’s coming. These younglings — who in the span of a week gave me hope for the future of journalism, who impressed me with their ideas and writing and boldness — they may seem sweet, but they are not our mutual allies.
I’d say be aware and keep a close on on Twitter, but when I mentioned that was the social media platform I use most, I was scoffed at.
“Twitter?” A designer said to me, tossing hair over her shoulder. “That’s so last decade.”
Best Thing I Read This Week:
Jason Sudeikis Is Having One Hell of a Year, GQ