Growing Up Gen X: Looking Back, So Much was So Wrong

Author of the Month

April 6, 2026

Michael Cline, Author

Tom O'Connor, Publisher 

I'm the earliest of my generation, having been born in 1965. When thinking of growing up as a Generation Xer, many things may come to mind: latchkey kids roaming the streets unsupervised, films like The Breakfast Club, Pac-Man, VHS, and mixed tapes. However, at least for me, I remember things that were a bit darker — stuff I don't think is as common as it used to be — which is probably for the better.

I've no idea if my Gen X experience, especially during my middle and high school years, is similar to those who are my age. Those of us born in the mid- to late 1960s are OG Gen X —the most feral of the feral. We are characterized by independence, resourcefulness, and by the technological and cultural shifts of our time. We are indestructible, tough as nails, and resilient. For better or worse, we are the product of growing up independent and being allowed to do things that future generations weren't.

My earliest memories are of the TV being on, tuned to the news, and hearing about the latest casualties in Vietnam. This must have been around 1970 or 1971, when I was five or six years old. Although I didn't understand much of what I heard, I knew that it wasn't anything good. While these news reports frightened me, there was something else TV-related that would send me into a panic.

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. The broadcasters of your area, in voluntary cooperation with the FCC and other authorities, have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency. If this had been an actual emergency, the attention signal you just heard would have been followed by official information, news, or instructions.

As a child growing up during the Cold War era with threats of nuclear attacks from the USSR, these weekly TV and radio messages tested the system to ensure it was operational and would be used to relay information if a nuclear attack had occurred. The voice reading the message was stern and authoritative, and its serious tone scared me, but that wasn't the worst part.

These test messages used an attention-grabbing sound —a combination of two tones: 853 Hz and 960 Hz. They were unpleasant and would send me into a full-blown meltdown. These sounds, to me, represented the end of the world. I'd yell "turn it off, turn it off!" while frozen in fear every time the message was broadcast. My mother would rush over to the TV or radio and lower the volume when they came on abruptly. If she didn't, I'd have a panic attack.

From middle school until I graduated from high school in 1983, I didn't have many friends. Although I was well-liked, except for my elementary school years and up to sixth grade, where I was horribly bullied, I never got very close to my classmates. As a shy kid with little self-confidence, I mostly kept to myself, except for spending time with a handful of friends.

What appeared to be completely normal to me at the time now seems highly dysfunctional and out of place. My mother's parents raised me after she died in 1979, and I didn't experience much of what my friends did, but they all had a commonality in their families.

Things were different in the late 70s and early 80s, but I still find it odd and a bit unsettling that nearly all of my friends were growing up with alcoholic fathers. I don't recall any of my friends being close with their fathers, and most of them didn't engage with them in any activities or conversations unless they were forced to.

Happy Hour

This may have happened more because of where I grew up. In Trenton, NJ, at least in my neighborhood of Chambersburg, there was a bar on almost every corner. These were your typical dark, uninviting watering holes where neighborhood men went straight from work to their favorite bar, bypassing their homes and families. Happy Hour consisted of lower to middle-class blue-collar types drinking away their troubles while watching the news and arguing politics.

The father of one of my friends would have his wife bring his home-cooked dinner to the bar where he drank every weekday at 6 PM sharp. He was a quiet man who laid down the law to his family, and if they didn't follow his rules perfectly, he would let them know in an angry tone. Whenever I visited this friend, I always prayed that his father would ignore me, which he usually did. I was just as afraid of him as my friend was.

Drunken outbursts and a bit of domestic violence amongst these fathers were par for the course. It seemed as if the perfect nuclear family consisted of a drunken husband, his wife who abided by his every need, a child or two, and a dog. Fortunately, my friends never spent much time at home and were free to roam wherever they chose. Spending time with family during this era, at least within my circle of friends, was never pleasant.

Aside from drunken fathers, my friend's homes came in one of two categories. The first was very typical of the time, with hideous wood paneling on the walls, old but comfortable sofas and couches surrounding the big box-style televisions that were the centerpiece of everyone's living room. Half-filled plastic or glass ashtrays were on shabby end tables with visible burn marks and within easy reach, and most of my friends' parents smoked. As teenagers, we smoked too, although not all households would allow us to do so in front of the adults.

The second variety consisted of an incredibly spotless home, not an ashtray or beer can in sight. Their living rooms were entirely off-limits to us. They had the appearance of a museum time capsule, whose perfectly vacuumed shag carpets rarely saw shoes, lest they disrupt the vacuum's distinct rows of parallel stripes. Most also had furniture covered in thick, ill-fitting, transparent vinyl.

While most of my friends had grown up in the ashtray-and-beer-can-ridden environment, I did have one friend whose home didn't fit either category. His home was, well, for lack of a better word, unique.

The Unique Home

He was truly a latchkey kid. His family was on the lower end of the lower middle class, and both of his parents held full-time jobs. They were never home any time I went to hang out with him.

The first time I went to his home after school, I wasn't all that shocked when he unlocked the front door and invited me inside. Like my other friends' homes, there were numerous ashtrays on tables, shelves, and windowsills; however, getting from the living room to the kitchen, which is where we were headed to make ourselves a snack, was a bit difficult.

Other than a narrow path that went diagonally from the entrance, passed the couch and TV, and led to the kitchen, there were piles of newspapers and assorted junk mail. And when I say piles, I mean piled from floor to ceiling. Along their sides were dust and cobwebs as if they hadn't been disturbed for years.

Even all these decades later, I'm still surprised by how I simply ignored these monuments to the printed word and didn't think much of them. In today's world, his parents would be labeled hoarders. We didn't have such a term back then.

Looking back on this time in my life, it's apparent why, in my adult years, I've suffered from some social anxiety. My formative years were surrounded by drunken and sometimes violent men, perfect living rooms that I wasn't allowed to set foot in, and weekly warnings of nuclear war.

Gen X - The Survivors

However, somehow, most of my generation beat the odds and grew up fast. Most of us knew how to prepare a fully cooked meal by the time we were thirteen, and no longer required babysitters by the time we were ten. Unfortunately, two of them died by suicide. The others, I've completely lost contact with.

We survived so much at such young ages with little parental guidance, which is why many of us, as adults, can be pretty cynical and skeptical, yet not worry much because we know we can survive anything. Boomers may be grouchy, and Millennials may be overly sensitive, but we Gen X-ers are survivors.

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Michael Cline can be reached at michaelcline2323@gmail.com

He has authored three books. NEW YORK CITY JUNKY DAYS chronicles his early addiction in NYC and his ultimate salvation. Its sequel, NEW YORK RECOVERY DAYS, explores the realities of relapse, depression, and the vital distinction between abstinence and recovery. Finally, MY ADVENTURES IN TUVA details three life-changing trips to Siberia that he credits with saving him from a cycle of addiction.

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