There used to be a thing called boredom. Not the kind you complain about with Wi-Fi and seven streaming platforms within reach. I’m talking about real boredom; staring-at-the-ceiling, watching-ants-on-the-sidewalk, “ain’t-nothing-on-but-soap-operas-after-The-Price-Is-Right” boredom. And as a Black Gen X dad who grew up in the era of Jheri curls, tube socks, and universal latchkey kid protocol (see: “Don’t you let nobody in this house.”), I say this without a hint of irony: boredom might have been the most important part of summer vacation.
It was in that boredom that we got creative. We built worlds with nothing but imagination, bike tires, and the occasional giant cardboard box that was a clubhouse, a breakdance pad, or an art canvas, respectively. We passed long hours playing Uno or freeze tag or making up ridiculous games with equally ridiculous names. Some days were filled with activity, but just as many were left to the elements of whatever came our way. And that was the magic of it. The freedom. The chaos. The possibility.
Fast forward to now, and it feels like summer, at least the kind that shaped us, is dead.
We didn’t kill it. Hyper-competitive parenting did.
We stopped seeing value in daydreams
Today’s kids have schedules tighter than a Silicon Valley CEO. Between travel sports, enrichment camps, accelerated reading lists, and STEM programs, we’ve programmed the summer to death. What was once a break has now become the offseason grind. A warm-weather bootcamp for future scholarship recipients, Google interns, and startup founders.
But in all that hustle, we’ve stolen something essential. Summer used to be about the absence of structure. Now it’s about maintaining control in a different font.
Look, I get it. As a Black parent (especially a single Black father) I’m acutely aware of what the world wants to deny my kids. So we push. We prepare. We polish them up and present them as exceptional, because we know they have to be. But damn if it isn’t exhausting. For them and for us.
My Glee-obsessed 13-year-old daughter is starting to come into her own artistic and dramatic potential. She’s in theater camp this summer, and I’m glad she has a place to explore her passion. But I’m also kind of sad. Because theater camp is scheduled. Structured. Supervised. She’ll grow as a performer, sure. But will she learn how to do nothing and be okay with it? Will she know how to entertain herself with a cardboard box and a Sharpie? Will she ever just roam?
Source: Bring Back Boredom: A Requiem For Black Gen X Summers
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