The Greatest Generation: where I belong

When I saw a recent Point poll asking which decade I would most like to live in, being a good conservative traditionalist, I dutifully chose the 1950s. And, being a good conservative traditionalist, I was dismayed, but not surprised, by Princeton's preference for the 1960s — damn hippies. This led me to a topic that I have often thought about in the past: which period in 20th-century American history I would most like to live. I have come to the conclusion that the generation of my grandparents, which Tom Brokaw has called "The Greatest Generation," is where I would feel most secure.

It all begins around 1920. America is on a high after securing victory for the Allied Powers in the Great War and is ready to retire to domestic life. I could experience the Roaring 20s through the innocent eyes of childhood: the fun, the dancing, the debauchery and the unbridled capitalism that defined the decade. Choosing to live in this decade would merely be for kicks — so that some day I could relax in a rocking chair and say truthfully that "I lived in the 1920s."

My experiences in the 1930s, however, would be much more important to my growth as a person. I could come of age during one of the most protracted periods of want in the nation's history, enduring the tragic and momentous shift from the complacency of the previous decade to the economic strife of the Great Depression, learning the values of faith, family and hard work that were necessary to endure. Or I could have been caught up in the wave of progressivism that swept the nation. Probably not.

And then the 1940s would arrive: one of the most important and successful decades in American history. Things get a little sticky here, though. As a patriotic young American male in the 40s, I would have to go off to war (preferably in Europe, as fighting Nazis is sexier than fighting the Japanese). But what if I died? Well, then this column would end, leaving much empty space on the page, and my editor wouldn't like that. So, not only would I survive, but I would most likely kill several hundred Nazis in North Africa, Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge.

I would then come home to the America of the 1950s, where I would marry a lovely woman, have two lovely kids and buy a lovely house in a lovely suburb with a lovely white picket fence. Commies would scare me, and I would probably like Ike. In the 50s I could experience another great postwar decade, this time marked not by cultural liberation, but by traditionalism. Hello, my name is Ward Cleaver. This is my wife, June, and my sons, Wally and Theodore.

But it would soon come crashing down. During the 1960s, I would have the priceless opportunity to be the angry middle-aged man who hates liberals, hippies and rock and roll. I would be increasingly dismayed as my lovely children became exposed to these undesirable, un-American facets of the 60s. With the wisdom of experience (I fought a war for this country!), I could look condescendingly on the youth that paraded their naivete down Main Street. Damn those Beatles.

There's not much to say about the 1970s. I would be disillusioned by Nixon, then more disillusioned by Carter. If I could skip the 70s that would be great. So, let's move on.

Ah, the 1980s. Finally, I would be vindicated. After nearly 20 years of liberalism and sexual liberation, of being told to be ashamed of my nation and my heritage, a rush of patriotism, conservatism and traditionalism would ride the coattails of President Ronald Reagan into the Oval Office and into the hearts of the American people. I would be collecting Social Security checks by now, looking back with pride on the more than 60 years of American history of which I had been a part. I would be the quintessential American of the 1980s and the quintessential member of the Reagan Revolution.

I think for most of the 90s, as my age continued to increase, I would be content. The Persian Gulf War would prove an astounding success and, though a Democrat would supplant George H. W. Bush in the White House, the politics would be moderate, still feeling the influences of Reaganism. Of course, the newfangled technology of the era would be a bit bothersome. So, if I take a picture, it shows up on this little screen-thing here? Wait, where's the film?

And this brings us to the current decade. I would hopefully be able to live into the new millennium, an experience not often reserved for my generation. On Sept. 11, 2001, I would be able to compare my feelings to Pearl Harbor because I heard the news on December 7, 1941. But now, my time has come. Age is catching up with me, robbing me of ....

Hmm ... what were we talking about again? Brandon McGinley is a freshman from Pittsburgh, Pa. He may be reached at bmcginle@princeton.edu.