Gen X has been designated the 'worst grandparents.' Sadly, their explanation makes sense.
The latch-key generation doesn't hate their family, they're burnt out.
Gen X designated the 'worst grandparents' by Millennials
Generation X, typically the children of Baby Boomers born between the years of 1965-1980 tend to have a complicated reputation depending on who you ask. Some view them as a feral generation never to be spoken of poorly without consequence, while others view them as innovators pushing us into the future. But in recent years, Gen Xers have been dubbed the "worst grandparents" by social media users.
This multi-year conversation started when a video went viral calling Gen X out for being "terrible" grandparents, claiming that they never want to help with grandchildren. It didn't take long before other Millennials piled on to air their own grievances about Gen X grandparents. Most people criticizing the "new grandparents" were genuinely perplexed as to how they did not want to be more involved in the lives of their grandchildren.
Family baking fun in the kitchen.Photo credit: Canva
Kylie Muse reveals in a video that she felt neglected by her Gen X parents growing up, saying, "It's quite a common theme for Gen X parents to be neglectful in some capacity and it's just crazy to me how more of them haven't learned from the past 20 to 30 years, instead of these grandparents seeing their kids having kids as an opportunity to restore the health in their relationships with their kids by showing up and helping them during the hardest transition of their lives, they would rather double down and compromise their relationship with that next generation. All for the sake of hyper-individualism and pride."
@kylies.muse Gen x grandparents and their beloved empty nest 🥴 just say you hate having a family 😭 #grandparents #grandparentsoftiktok ♬ original sound - Kylie ꩜
The critique coming from the younger generation is not lost on Gen X, and they started coming out in force to respond with such vigor you'd think John Hughes had just announced the re-release of The Breakfast Club. It would seem that some of the people complaining of the lack of involvement have not considered that Gen X could have valid reasons for not immediately jumping in to take on grandparenting in the way some expect. A man by the name of John S. Blake gives a candid look into why Gen X was neglected as children and, in turn, became hype-independent at an early age.
"As a Gen X who's been on this earth long enough to have some hindsight I can tell you this, being independent at a young age is not a flex, what it actually means is capitalism is so brutal that our parents were forced to neglect their own children to stay alive. My generation was struggling so much that we had to leave our children unattended in order to produce enough so that we could afford to exist," Blake says.
@blackfluidpoet Replying to @ellens0061 #foryoupage #homealone #fyp #foryou ♬ Slippin' - Re-Recorded - DMX
But perhaps one of the most heart wrenching explanations comes from an elder Millennial who goes by the name Amazing Dea. In response to another Millennial who asks about Gen X being let off the hook, Dea shares, "Being as though you look like you might be a younger Millennial, let me go ahead and enlighten you. Generation X and older Millennials had to live through more than just this pandemic. We had the crack epidemic, we had the AIDS epidemic and let me tell you something, it was scary as f***."
Dea went on to explain that there were apartment complexes burned due to high populations of people with AIDS living in them and how they would witness people go from being completely normal to being addicted to crack in a matter of weeks. It seems that depending on socioeconomic status, Gen Xers lived wildly different lives with the common theme being growing up entirely too fast at an extremely young age.
Three generations smiling by the sea.Photo credit: Canva
Another person kindly breaks down the confusion over why Gen X isn't rising to the occasion of being award-winning grandparents. In response to the criticism she replies, "We grew up in a different time, first of all. A lot of us, meaning me, Gen X, I was raised by boomers. A lot of us did not get raised by our grandparents. We were like the feral kids, like by 7 and 9 years old we were actually babysitting our brothers and sisters, alright."
The woman explains further in the video that Gen X doesn't want to raise their grandchildren or simply be babysitters, that there's a difference between expecting grandparents to be involved and expecting them to be babysitters.
@that1crazy72 Let’s take it a step further. You share DNA with your grandkids they are part of you not everyone gets the privilege of being a grandparent so if you are one take that as a blessing #genxgrandparents ♬ original sound - That1crazy72
In many of the response videos shared by Gen Xers, they certainly seem to love their grandchildren and children alike, but there's a discrepancy in expectation. The consensus of the forgotten generation seems to be that they had adult responsibilities much too early, were exposed to adult life experiences at a young age, and were often left to their own devices for long periods of time while also being told that their voices didn't matter.
While the argument seems to be around their lack of involvement as grandparents, they appear to be saying that they want to enjoy the freedom they didn't have as children, while being valued as a person and not a babysitter. In many follow up videos, Gen Xers gushed over their grandchildren and how they loved when they were around. It's just that they draw the line at raising them. Maybe for some, their experiences with their own childhood isn't enough to move Gen X out of the "worst grandparents" category, but for others it provides much needed context.
It's hard to date when you're fat, but not for the reasons you might think.
"You know what I like about you? You’ve got fat pride. I felt that way, too, until I realized I wanted anyone to fuck me ever."
We’d been talking online for weeks — he was funny, erudite, nerdy, kind. He’d told me he’d lost weight in the past. I’d done my due diligence of telling him how fat I was, working hard to avoid repeats of past hurt and disappointment. I’d weeded through dozens of profiles about wanting to meet "healthy," "active" women and several that pointedly instructed that fat women weren’t welcome. Many men had sent graphic, sexual messages, and when I politely declined or didn’t respond, they issued lengthy screeds. "U SHOULD BE GRATEFUL." "I wouldn’t even rape you."
In amongst all of that, I’d found someone who seemed like a gem. And then, on our first real date, this. It was frustrating, isolating, and made me feel so big and so small, all at the same time.
I gently pushed back. "You know you’re saying that about me, too, right?"
"What?"
"When you talk about no one wanting to fuck fat people, you’re talking about me, too."
He shook his head. "Don’t take it personally. It’s not personal."
I got quiet then asked for the check. He said he’d walk me out. When we got outside, he tried to kiss me then asked if I wanted to go back to his place.
Years later, I was falling for a new partner.
We’d been dating for several months, and she was extraordinary: full of life, wildly intelligent, absurdly beautiful. I’d tell her often — maybe too often — how stunning I thought she was. With equal frequency, she’d talk about my body. "You’re so brave to dress the way you do." "I want you to feel empowered."
At first, her responses sounded like reciprocity, but they always seemed to sting. I felt deflated every time she said it. Like that first date, she couldn’t see past my body. She valued me, but she didn’t desire me. When she spoke, she never spoke about my body — only about my relationship to it. She was amazed that I wasn’t sucked into the undertow of self-loathing and isolation that she expected from fat women. Those comments were a reminder of how frequently she thought of my body, not as an object of desire, but as an obstacle to overcome. She was impressed that I could. She could not.
When you and I talk about dating, dear friend, we have a lot of overlapping experiences because dating can be difficult and awkward for anyone.
It’s a strange auditioning process: all artifice to find someone who can respect your uncrossable lines, and failed auditions usually mean those lines get crossed. It’s easy to feel judged, stalled, alone in the process. It can get exhausting, exciting, frustrating, exhilarating.
But dating as a fat person means contending with so many added layers of challenge.
You told me once you imagined it was impossible to date as a fat person. It’s not; it’s just a lot of work. Lots of people are willing to sleep with fat people. Many are willing to date a fat person.
Few are willing to truly embrace a fat person. Almost no one, it seems, really knows what that means.
That first date, dear friend, is such a frequent moment.
My sweet, funny date was abruptly overthrown, overtaken by years of the same anti-fat messages all of us hear. He couldn’t reconcile being fat and being loved. All of that, suddenly, was visited upon me, as it so often is.
I only bring up my feelings about being a fat person after knowing someone for some time. But, with startling regularity, new acquaintances, dates, and strangers offer diet advice, trial gym memberships, and, even once, a recommendation for a surgeon. My life as a fat person is a barrage of weekly, daily, and hourly offers of unsolicited advice. At first, the detailed answers, the constant defense, the explanation of my daily diet and medical history are ineffective — no answer is sufficient. Over time, it becomes burdensome, then exhausting, then frustrating. And it doesn’t seem to cross the minds of most people I meet that I’ve heard what they’ve said before — not just once, but over and over again, in great detail. I have a forced expertise in diets, exercise regimens, miracle pills, and the science of weight loss.
That may not be your experience, dear friend, because people may approach you differently.
You might not know what it’s like to feel your face flush or your heart race when your body so reliably becomes a topic of conversation during dinner parties, work events, first dates. There’s a familiar wave of frustration, hurt, and exhaustion. It’s all the visceral, invisible consequence of unintended harm because few of us — even you, my darling — have unlearned the scripts we’re expected to recite when we see a body like mine.
As a fat woman, I just want what anyone else wants: to be seen, to be loved, to be supported for who I am. To be challenged and adored. To be worth the effort for who I am.
When I meet people whose first response to me is about my fat body, I learn something important about that person. Whether their opening salvo is "Fat bitch" or "I’m concerned about your health" or "Have you tried this diet?" or "I think you’re beautiful," they all send the same message: that I am invisible. Rather than seeing me or getting to know who I am, they can only see my fat body.
It’s true of so many people I meet. They’ve got this deep-seated block: They can’t see fat people as individual people with individual stories because no one expects them to. Nothing in our culture indicates that fat people might have individual experiences, different stories, life experiences as rich and varied as anyone else. Instead, we’re met with diagnosis, prognosis, quarantine: an anthropological impulse to demand to know why we are the way we are and to figure out how to stop us from having the bodies we have. We’re reduced to figures in an equation, a puzzle to solve. But truthfully, we’re so much messier than that. We’re just as contradictory, real, and human as anyone else you know, and loving us is just as complicated.
When we have conversations like this, you often say, "I had no idea."
It’s heartening, dear friend, and it’s also hard to hear. It’s a harsh reminder that even those closest to me are subject to all those same influences and impulses.
There’s so much work in just working up the mettle to date at all. Building your own confidence and battling your own doubt enough to date at all can be difficult, in part because there’s no template. Media representation is seriously lacking for many communities; seeing thriving fat people in media is nearly nonexistent. Being fat means not seeing yourself reflected anywhere as being happy, healthy, or affirmed.
Being fat means taking on the Sisyphean task of creating your own world, one in which you can declare a truce with yourself and learn to feel OK or feel nothing at all about yourself when the entire world seems to be telling you that is not possible.
It means finding whatever you can scavenge to build yourself some makeshift shelter of thatch and driftwood. It’s brittle and dry, and it’s something. You try to build something that can withstand the gale-force winds of seeing an episode of "The Biggest Loser" or hearing a stranger offer unsolicited diet advice that you’re already taking. You build it slowly, painstakingly — testing methods and gathering rare, essential materials over time. It’s precious and fragile, a labor of love and a means of survival.
And finding a partner means opening that hard-fought home to someone else, over and over again, knowing that person might destroy it.
Usually, they do.
You’ve mourned it a hundred times. Your skin has thickened. Sometimes that person burns it to the ground, setting a fire to watch it burn. But more often, they just forget to extinguish their cigarette. Yes, when we look for love, some of us are hurt intentionally, cruelly, because of our bodies and because of overt fatphobia. But usually, we’re hurt without malice, through rote scripts about who we’re allowed to be and an expectation that we’ll devote our lives to meeting those expectations.
Often, when looking for friends and partners, I search for those who will be gentle with the home I’ve built, ramshackle though it is.
What made such an impression on my partner from years ago was that I didn’t stop there: I wanted someone who would help build that home, someone who would protect it, someone who would call it their home, too. Because a lack of harm isn’t love.
I want love. And as a fat person, there’s audacity in that.