Former U.S. President Bill Clinton's visit to Tufts felt like a reunion of a friend you hadn't realized how much you'd missed. But if the sudden personal resonance of the word "intern" hadn't already led you to wincingly calculate the age of the former president, his playful references to his recent geriatric developments forced you to face the fact. Bill Clinton, symbol of swagger and vitality, is getting old.
It was fitting to have such a tangible manifestation before a crowd that knew all too well that the Clinton era was dead.
Our generation will likely be defined by the dark shadows of tragedy and blemishes of misfortune that have come to mark the decade after the 42nd presidency. But many of our first memories were born in the sparkle of the Clinton years.
We learned to run as history sprinted. The technological innovation that revolutionized the way humans approach the world imparted within us a conception of status quo consisting of exhilarating innovation and boundless advancements. We didn't understand the complexities of a post−Cold War modernity, but we didn't need to for the positivity of our caretakers to imbed itself in our character. We were intoxicated with the idea that we can — and will — do anything.
Of course, we all know how the story changes. Our adolescent global awareness was developed as the twin towers collapsed and fear swept the world into its greedy arms. While we learned to drive and dressed for prom, hostility and violence flared across the world, transmitting a tension that hung heavily in the international air. Whispers of doubt and suspicious reservation replaced the daring innovation and brazen expectations. The '90s seemed like a distant dream.
And yet, the trajectory of history was not so linear. Many of our first ballots elected the first black president, and now we conduct our initial job searches as devastating rates of unemployment ravage the nation. We watch democratic movements gain steam across the Middle East while across America people feel increasingly disempowered. We very seriously contemplated making a woman the president of the most powerful nation on earth, but still pay women only 77 cents for every dollar earned by their male counterparts.
This strange collusion of possibility and restrictions has left us with an abstract sense of opportunity, but a personal experience more marked by visible roadblocks. We may have seen the glass ceiling shattered by heroes, but personally still find it hard to get off the ground. In this context the pit of failure seems scarier and deeper — we were the generation that could have done anything, and if we don't, what's our excuse?
Several years ago, while teaching English to a Central American immigrant, I asked if she was happier in the United States. Her eyes became deep and still as competing emotions played out on her face. "It's hard to compare," she said, her toddler squealing for lunch from his highchair. "In America it's easier to find work and have money, but it's also much easier to feel poor. I have so much more, but here its impossible to escape reminders of how much I will never have."
In a strange way, her reflections echoed the current internal struggle of America's youth. Technology and globalization create instant dissemination of images of success and possibility and yet, our own victory feels further away. Born of a decade in an illuminated world, we came of age with a sudden and drastic dimming — we saw what was possible just long enough to miss it.
Even Clinton, a man of a uniquely charmed existence and an emblem of optimism, seemed sobered. It may not come as much comfort for a generation wrestling with this dual reality and conflicting consciousness, but at the very least, it seems that Bill still feels our pain.
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Amanda Johnson is a senior majoring in international relations. She can be reached at Amanda.Johnson@tufts.edu.
