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MOTRIA KUSHNIR For days after the phone call I could not get the conversation out of my mind. In keen frustration I suffered as my thoughts kept turning on l-could-have- sayings and l-should-have-answers. Truth to tell, my second encounter with the Telephone Critic had been devastating. When she called the first time-ostensibly to propose being my coauthor-she had limited her criticisms to just me, up close and personal, as they say in contact sports. But in round two, she had actually lowered the boom on my entire generation. And I, shame of shames, while answering the bell, could not, did not, rise to a defense. She had clobbered me and, with me, every person within twenty years my peer. Ignorant young fools, she had called us. Never listen was her charge; doomed to repeat mistakes was the consequence she threatened. “So little promise” and “godawful grim” were the exact words she used to describe us and our future. Her argument worried at my brain like a dog gnawing at a bone. Being a stubborn bonehead, however, I refused to accept her reasoning as sound. She was, undoubtedly, wrong. I promised myself a bright future and would accept no other. But how to prove that she was mistaken and I, correct? Responsibility for answering her accusations lay heavy upon me. The good name of my generation, as well as the future of humanity, hung in the balance. Doomsayer that she was, she could not possibly be right... Could she? Of course not, I reassured myself. Don’t let that gloomy rhetoric get you down, I resolved as I composed myself. Get yourself a strategy, I advised myself. Reconstruct her argument and find the failings in its logic, I coached myself. Then, call her back and give her a piece of your mind, I cheered myself on. Or better yet, I smiled slyly to myself, let her call you; then, blast her with a sneak rebuttal. I worked hard to recall her ratiocinations. To my recollection, they ran along the following track; today’s elderly get no respect from today's young people. These immature know-nothings, who think they know it all, don’t listen to the wise (read aged). Today's aged— that is, yesterday’s young people— used to listen to their elders— that is, yesterday’s old people— when they were young. But a fat lot of good it has done them. For here they are, old before their time, sentenced to be today’s aged with every last prayer for the future invested in us, the currently young and hard of hearing. Pretty desperate stuff! But could she support it? Was it fact, then, that she and her age peers had been sandwiched between two of the least good-for- something generations of all time? I thought not. Long hours I spent marshaling my reason and drilling my thoughts into perfect order. I jotted notes onto index cards and rehearsed my speech. When she called, I was ready for her. “ Is that you?” she asked in response to my hello. “You who?” I queried, feeling very certain of myself. “My coauthor,” she snapped. “Ah, you mean me,” I parried, “the person you berated not so long ago for inattention. I’d like to demonstrate for you that, in fact, I not only heard what you were saying, I remembered what you said. I have thought it over and, now, I’d like to give you my reply.” Barely hearing her bemused reaction, I began. “When overcome by nostalgia, we tell ourselves that, once upon a time, there was no generation gap. In idealizing the past, we picture old and young — like the lion and the lamb — living and conversing with each other in perfect accord. On the other hand, when we slip into a negative mind, we become convinced that any sort of common ground for agreement between individuals of different ages is impossible. Both positions being extreme, neither is more than partially correct.” Here, because my throat was just a little dry, I paused to swallow. She seized this opportunity to remark— sarcastical ly, it seemed to me: “You don’t say?” Ignoring her disparaging tone, I continued: “What I mean to say is that in societies where change occurs only very slowly, the old are venerated as seers and arbiters of custom. ‘What happened to me,’ the old can say with solid confidence, ‘will happen to you.’ However, in a world where change is rapid and continual, yesterday’s news is, finally, merely yesterday’s news. Our knowledge of what happened in the past does not necessarily provide insight into what will happen in the future. Moreover, the disruptive impact of change is, cummulatively, greater than one would expect.” “ Is that right?” she asked with what I am sure was feigned surprise. She rattled me a little, so I continued quickly, trying to make my point before she undercut me, again. “As I was saying, change scrambles communica tions between the generations, causing missed НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ, КВІТЕНЬ 1980 25
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