I used to resent growing up in a quiet, sheltered neighborhood. Say bye-bye to spontaneity. No knocking on people’s doors or cruising around the streets on the bicycle; if you’d like to see a friend you must schedule a playdate first. In high school, I’d be jealous of the other kids who could just wander wherever they wanted without being supervised. Mostly I just felt lonely. I’d rebel by sneaking out to the grocery store instead of the park to buy a fancy soda.
It could always be worse. I grew up in a loving family, and at least it was safe enough for me to go outside (or stay indoors, for that matter). The bubble of security and genuine care freed me to think about other things instead of worrying about staying alive. Not every kid gets that chance.
Plus I had unrestricted Internet access, and could keep my social needs at bay by talking to oddballs in faraway places. And I could bug my younger brother whenever. You’ll have to ask him if he enjoyed that part.
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Being sheltered and knowing that I’m being sheltered can carry both shame and fear. Shame that strangers would think of me as one of those entitled, overly coddled kids that pundits like to criticize in the news, and fear that those people may have been right. My reaction to that life narrative was just going bananas the moment I left home for university. That meant being open to meeting anybody strange or mysterious, or pursuing any adventure reckless, late night, or “for the story”. I had a lot of years to compensate for, I felt.
I can’t say that’s the best reaction, but it certainly made life more interesting.
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I still resent the American suburb and what it represents (isolation, lack of respect for a vibrant public space), but now I think without that experience, I wouldn’t have been so eager to break out and explore the world.
So I am grateful.
