I spent the weekend in a skilled care nursing center with my 95-year-old father, who is recovering from a staph infection and pneumonia on top of congestive heart failure. Needless to say, he is depressed, struggling with leaving his home for assisted living and all those difficult realizations that come with it. But throughout the weekend, whenever James popped his head in to the room, my dad would brighten just a little. James was his nurse, and it struck me as his own story unfolded over the course of the weekend, how different—dare I say how "adult"—James is from many of the young people I've interviewed.
I've been writing for several years now about young adults—how the path to adulthood is slowing down, as young people take longer to launch, live at home longer, take more time in school, put off relationships and take a slower path into a career or job.
Some call this generation a bunch of Peter Pans. Others are even less generous. But I see it differently. I've argued, based on the best research we have on this topic, that a slower path is a path to a more secure future. And it is. Wages are higher the more education you get. Jobs are more secure if you land in a "professional" field rather than the service sector—the sector where those with the least education usually end up. Relationships are typically more secure the longer one waits to marry. Parents who have waited until they themselves are financially and emotionally secure tend to raise kids who have more advantages in life.
But every once in awhile I run into a young person, like James, and it forces me to rethink everything. When I compare James to some of the other kids I've interviewed, it makes me wonder, has a slower path given a generation too much time to focus on themselves? Is it creating a bunch of naval-gazers?
James is 26. The first time I saw him, he was walking behind my dad, stooped over a walker and inching his way from the bathroom to his bed. James had a steady hand on him and was thrilled that Dad was up and about. "I've seen 50-year-olds who are in worse shape than you are, Clair," he told him. "You're doing great!" My dad is not one to enjoy a compliment—it's too uncomfortable—but I could see he was pleased with himself.
The next time I saw James, we'd called him because Dad couldn't stop coughing, and barely able to catch a breath, he was beginning to panic. James took charge, adjusted the bed, pulled Dad forward and up, propping him in a more comfortable position, all the while telling Dad that he himself had just gotten over pneumonia and spent many a night in his recliner, propped up just like this, because he couldn't stop coughing. Again, just the right words to put Dad at ease.
Later that day, James came in to check on Dad as we were all reminiscing about a gas station in town (such is small talk), back in the day when gas stations of the past that filled your tank, washed your windshield, and checked the oil, James mentioned a station in Mason City that still did that, for a small fee. "I send my wife there," he said, "since she's a paraplegic now. She can't walk, but she can still drive, so I just feel better knowing she's filling up there." A bell called him away before he could finish.
Saturday turned into Sunday, and as the sun began to dip below the horizon and the blue gloom of a winter evening settled in, James stopped back in to see how Dad was doing. The conversation had turned to the military, a favorite topic for Dad, who had served during WWII. James began to talk about this own military career. He'd joined the Army Reserves at age 21 or 22 after getting a BA in computer science. "I'd rather die over there than have someone bomb the mall where my mom and sister were shopping," he said of his decision to volunteer at the height of a war.
He'd no sooner finished boot camp, he said, than he was deployed. He trained to be a medic, and got his first taste of the life and death of war in the deserts of Iraq. Dad had been listening quietly to all this, but when he heard James was a medic, he started talking about his time in Saipan at the height of the Pacific war.
"The night I got hit," he said, "it was about midnight. We were pinned down and anyone who moved was shot at. The medic---" His face crumpled and he put his hands over his face. My nephew, my husband, my mom, and I stood there as Dad began to cry. Only James walked over and put a hand on his shoulder and said, "They're pretty good guys, aren't they? Risk their life to get to you." He knew. We had no idea what had sparked dad's tears, but it was the memory of a medic risking his life to get to Dad that had caused him to break down "No one can really understand it, can they?" James said to Dad. Dad cleared his throat, "Nope. No one does."
Thankfully, James came back from Iraq in one piece. But his service wasn't over. He was immediately called down to southern Iowa underwater from record flooding. In the summer of that same year, he was called back up to help a town leveled by a massive tornado. Winter saw him back with his unit helping families digging out from record snowfall. Each time he left his new wife to help others in need, a wife who because of a bad car accident could no longer walk or manage many of the simple acts of daily living.
"I wouldn't do it any differently," he said. "I think everyone should serve. It sure focuses your life."
He has since gone back to school for his RN. "It was a good job that paid $50,000 a year. I couldn't make that right away in computer science," he said. "And with my wife, I just wanted to be able to be there for her. And plus, I do love it."
Next up, he wants to fly helicopters—Black Hawks, preferably. Eighteen months of study and training this summer, and I have no doubt he'll be airborne.
I think of James now as I go through the interviews I've done about how the recession is affecting young people, many of whom have been told they could be anything they wanted to be only to find out that the world sometimes doesn't cooperate. Many struggle with college debt and unfulfilled dreams. Others complain they can't get a job without experience even though they know they would be perfect for the job. Still others express a sense of entitlement that begins with the "given" of living with their parents. Some even are shocked, shocked if their parents ask them for rent. Now I don't want to fall into the camp of people who think all young people are slackers and spoiled. I know better. I see many who are working hard, making it on their own, or following a dream. I see many others who are working to change the world they've inherited. But after spending a weekend with a guy like James, I suddenly have a lot less patience with those kids who can't look beyond their own orbit and understand that it is not "all about me."
There is something about service, whether it be in the military, the Peace Corps, City Year, or even politics. As James says, it focuses you. It takes you out of your solipsistic orbit. James willingly gives his time, again and again. He helps people who are fragile, scared, sick, or facing loss from disasters big and small. And truly, he is happy. I could just tell. He has a purpose and that purpose gives him a sense of belonging.
Perhaps a solution to this slower path to adulthood, which is not going away any time soon, is to create a two-year mandatory commitment to service. At some point before age 25, all young Americans must commit two years to service, in any form. The government could devise jobs or positions in a variety of areas where we need bright, ambitious young people. From building bridges to tutoring to driving the elderly to appointments and doctor's visits---the jobs could pay enough to make it viable, and valuable, experience. The work should not be busy work, but real jobs that offer a path to a career or at least that reveal just how lucky so many of us truly are. It's worth a thought.
At age 26, James has learned more about life than most of us will in a lifetime. He married the girl of his dreams only to see her paralyzed for life—and all that entails of him. He has seen war up close and personal as a medic. He has tended to people at their most vulnerable. No doubt he looks at life a little more clearly than most. And no doubt he is exceptional. But he didn't start out exceptional. A willingness to serve made him that way.
