Journal #7
Was/is your coming of age story similar to James Schloeffel’s story? Is your youth just slipping away… have you noticed anything of the sort? How does James’s “coming of age,” relate to the two we have already read (Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been and Almost Famous), and then your own life. How does this story compare?
Coming of Age
A Potential Definition…
Coming of age is a term used to describe the transition between childhood and adulthood. For some cultures, coming of age is determined at a certain age when a child is no longer a minor. Other cultures determine a child's coming of age when he or she hits puberty. In the United States, coming of age often refers to the preteen years, when children leave their toys behind in pursuit of more grown-up interests. The coming of age milestone is an important one, and can also be a difficult transition as some children are hesitant to leave childhood behind. Literature, the movies, and music often refer to the coming of age theme, and the problems or challenges associated with the transition.
An Article…
Why the coming of age is really the going of youth
By James Schloeffel, originally posted August 10, 2009
IT WASN'T until I was about 16 that I honestly grasped the reality that I was going to become an adult one day. Until that point I had subconsciously assumed that you were either a child or an adult, not both, and that I had been blessed by being born the former. It was a sobering realisation. All of the special privileges I had become accustomed to - such as cheap bus tickets, endless leisure time and constantly being referred to as ''the future'' - were, I now understood, going to come to an end. Well, not if I could help it. In defiance - or perhaps denial - I spent the following eight or so years, like most others my age, going all out to prove I was still young and still the future by staying out until 5am, drinking as if it were a sport and generally not taking anything too seriously. These are the years, between childhood and serious responsibility, when the government refers to you as a ''youth''. It's a rather peculiar label that conjures up images of loitering and knife crime and yet gives you access to all sorts of government initiatives, competitions and forums, none of which you will ever get around to becoming involved with.
These are your invincible glory years. You are effortlessly fashionable, you don't get hangovers. You know everything and everyone worth knowing. You don't take advice; you don't need to. You ''get it''. No one else does. These are the precious years when you think you are totally different from your parents and spend every waking moment trying to confirm the fact. (For the years before and after this you're either trying desperately to be like your parents or coming to terms with the fact that you already are.)
These are the years when you are expected to be obnoxious, selfish and self-absorbed. If you're going to start a rock band, or star in Big Brother or get arrested for urinating in public these are the years to do it. The truth is, it's all a big farewell party to your childhood self. Because soon, strange things start to happen. Little things at first. Like the first time a stranger refers to you as a man. I remember my first time. I was at Coles and a woman told her son to ''let the man through''. I turned around to see who she was talking about but, strangely, there was no man there. There are other examples. Like when you realise your favourite band hasn't put out a record in a decade or when you start using the word ''sensible'' in the same sentence as the word ''fashion''. Or when you sit out the last round of drinks (because you have to mow the lawn tomorrow) or catch yourself thinking it would be a nice idea to go for a drive on Sunday. Or when you start cleaning. It's not so much that age arrives, it's more that youth asks you to quietly leave the premises. You're wearing the wrong shoes, behaving inappropriately, and you no longer know the girl on the door. And as you are dragged to the exit, kicking and screaming, you suddenly realise you've been replaced by a new set of kids with funny hair and cheap bus passes.
From then on, it only gets worse.
Like when I saw someone in a line-up to a nightclub pull out an ID card with a birth year of 1990 emblazoned on it. I wasn't in the line. I was walking past on my way to the shop to pick up some milk for my cup of tea. But I could have been. At least I thought I could have been. Before you know it, you're talking work and wives and babies and bank loans. By then, it's well and truly over. You shake your head at the wild house parties across the road and ''tut tut'' at the graffiti on the fence.
So, to all the so-called ''youth'' out there, here's my advice: start a pretentious rock band, audition for a reality TV show and make the most of that fake ID while you still need it.
Just do it soon, because time waits for no man. Whatever his age.
