I just don’t know anymore

I grew up in pre-ironic, pre-racial healing America, in the 1950s, in the western suburbs of Minneapolis. It was a high-trust, wonderful place to live - shopping centers, golf courses and the sound of sprinklers. Women stayed home, by and large, and raised the family - dads worked. Kids were everywhere and no one wore a bike helmet. Ike was in the White House. The sky was blue. It was fabulous. I went to a high school with 2500 other kids. The school had a principal, two assistant principals, a nurse and three ladies who worked in the office - no metal detectors, no cops, no trouble to speak of. I’m not even sure the principal had a four-year degree. If he did, it was from some cow-college in North Dakota. We laughed at him (behind his back) because his first name was Milo. But Milo certainly wasn’t confused about what his job was. School was orderly and fun. Everyone got a decent education in the basics (and then some) and it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. Teachers were not called educators. Lunch was 30 cents.

And then my generation took over.