I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

I was in line at a coffee shop when a frustrated barista excused themselves after being yelled at by a customer.

Someone whispered, they don't make them like they used to.

They say, well, at least they are not in a war zone, or living as a hostage far away from their families.

Yes, previous generations were steely.

Survivors of wars. Survivors of discrimination. Not microaggressions, but macroaggressions.

The people who could take a joke, the people with skins thick as

football leather, who swallowed their frustrations, but at what cost? Our literature, our films,

are replete with narratives of addiction and domestic abuse as responses to societal pressures.

I hear lately in public discourse this language of resilience reassert itself again.

In private conversations and on social media, several acquaintances remarked on the perceived fragility of, quote,

young people today. These commenters often draw comparisons to their parents or grandparents' generation.

I consider this language deeply oppressive. It perpetuates the myth that life must be met with a heartiness,

rather than with accountability or righteousness. It is also a way to dismiss real demands,

such as that we treat each other with dignity, or that we expect more from life than perpetual hardship.

But even more, this language eclipses very real ways people were nurtured and protected by their families,

communities, institutions, of faith.

I too have used this language to discount young people, but my frustrations led to an

examination of my journey, and I realized that I never actually went it alone, merely getting by

with my intellect and luck. In fact, I benefited from a long line of care,

from people who had no other choice

but to watch over their children.

...