Free Essays on Neglecting Generation X

Neglecting Generation X By any measure, America’s youngest adult generation Generation X are the least politically active of any generation. Statistic after statistic tell the story of a generation that turns out to vote less frequently than others; the numbers also show that young adults are voting less than they once had. One would think that after all the struggles that were waged in this nation of ours for equal voting opportunities, every eligible citizen would head out to the polls. This is certainly not the case. United States is a nation built upon the fundamental principle of democracy, or rule by the people. Why then, do we in this country take voting for granted? Why do we not realize that voting is the most direct way that we have in participating in politics? The U. S. continues to be at the bottom of the ranks when it comes to voter turnout of the voting-age population. In fact, only 52.6 percent of the voting age population heads out to the polls. However, the problem does not lie in the low turnout, it is that only two-thirds of the voting-age population is registered to vote. Though it is probably too late to change the minds of the elder and middle-aged citizens about registering to vote, it is still possible to target Generation X and all those who will vote in the future. The fact that these people are not voting is the reason that the voting rate is so low and this country can ill-afford to stand by and hope that young people eventually grow up and start voting. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, in the 1996 presidential general election Generation X represented 33 percent of the voting age population, but accounted for only 24 percent of voters, making them the only generation to under-represent its voting-age population in the election. In the 1998 midterm election 18-24 year olds represented 39 percent of the voting-age population and accounted for only 28 percent of voters. Of course there are... Free Essays on Neglecting Generation X Free Essays on Neglecting Generation X Neglecting Generation X By any measure, America’s youngest adult generation Generation X are the least politically active of any generation. Statistic after statistic tell the story of a generation that turns out to vote less frequently than others; the numbers also show that young adults are voting less than they once had. One would think that after all the struggles that were waged in this nation of ours for equal voting opportunities, every eligible citizen would head out to the polls. This is certainly not the case. United States is a nation built upon the fundamental principle of democracy, or rule by the people. Why then, do we in this country take voting for granted? Why do we not realize that voting is the most direct way that we have in participating in politics? The U. S. continues to be at the bottom of the ranks when it comes to voter turnout of the voting-age population. In fact, only 52.6 percent of the voting age population heads out to the polls. However, the problem does not lie in the low turnout, it is that only two-thirds of the voting-age population is registered to vote. Though it is probably too late to change the minds of the elder and middle-aged citizens about registering to vote, it is still possible to target Generation X and all those who will vote in the future. The fact that these people are not voting is the reason that the voting rate is so low and this country can ill-afford to stand by and hope that young people eventually grow up and start voting. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, in the 1996 presidential general election Generation X represented 33 percent of the voting age population, but accounted for only 24 percent of voters, making them the only generation to under-represent its voting-age population in the election. In the 1998 midterm election 18-24 year olds represented 39 percent of the voting-age population and accounted for only 28 percent of voters. Of course there are...

A Horrifying Story of Rape in the Military

A Horrifying Story of Rape in the Military Brigid Harry (not her real name) is a wife, mother, and co-owner of a small marketing communications company she runs with her husband. She earned her MBA after completing her military service and now lives in New York. After years of silence, shes decided to share her story. I was 20, had already worked for 3 years as a secretary at a major corporation in my hometown, and was impatient to grow. Id come into the company all starry-eyed and within months had absorbed the tasks of two co-workers whod been laid off, folks with years at the company and most with two-year degrees. I didnt get far, because I was 20...and a girl. Perhaps an immature, impatient girl as I look back on it, but I knew that a high school diploma was going to get me nowhere - unless I was happy staying a secretary, and I wasnt. A Decision to Enlist A few years earlier Id considered the military as an alternative to a career in the business world. The recruiters all focused on education in their pitches, so I took some tests which revealed I was very qualified for a program that the Marines had - a photojournalist. They offered a special one-year program: candidates would live as civilians and attend one of the countrys top journalism schools as part of their education. All I had to do was sign. A few months later I did. Boot camp was rough (9 weeks for the gals), and other than some minor back issues that developed from the daily PT (physical training), I did just fine. During this time, I took additional testing and earned a perfect score for Morse Code Intercept and languages, which meant they really wanted me to learn Morse Code, and then Russian. Even though Id passed all the tests for a photojournalist, I caved to their daily badgering and signed away my first option. Normal Conversations I was sent to my first duty station at the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, FL, where all 5 services were sent to learn Morse Code. A few months into service, my back problems got worse, and I developed daily headaches and migraines. The base doctor, a youngish Navy captain from Puerto Rico, assigned some physical therapy and then had me follow-up with him. In our meetings, wed chat - and I knew I had to be appropriate in my conversations because he was an officer and I was enlisted. However, I believed that he was reaching out to me, glad to have a normal conversation with someone who had interests outside of the base and the bars that ringed the base. He invited me out to dinner one evening as a  friend. Nothing romantic was implied, he assured me, and I mentioned that I did have a boyfriend back home, a young man Id met just before I left. He said that he enjoyed our talks about old movies and old music​ because everyone else on the base wanted to talk about getting drunk or war. Dinner and Movies He also assured me that it would be after hours, off the base, and that the officer/enlisted thing wouldnt be an issue. I hesitated, but I found him pleasant and believed what he said. We agreed to go to an old movie festival (I actually think it was Bogart films) that was running that evening nearby, and he arranged to pick me up. I dressed casually, which back then (and with my lack of fashion sense) was jeans, a jean vest, and some sort of shiny blue polyester shirt - a bit on the boyish side, as I think back, but as we were to grab a burger and then watch old movies in a darkened theater, fashion was the least of my concerns. Why Dont We Eat Here First? He was prompt. He drove a black Trans-Am Firebird. The car actually surprised me because he hadnt struck me as one of those kinds of guys. Nevertheless, I climbed in and we left to go to dinner. But then he stopped at his off-base apartment, saying he needed to pick something up, and I could certainly join him for a few minutes. Okay, I thought - naively. As I noticed a package of chicken on the counter, and spices, and potatoes, he casually suggested, Why dont we eat here first? We had a few hours before the movies started, and besides, they ran continuously through the night. I agreed, but with hesitation. He poured me a drink (the legal drinking age was at 18 at the time) and I consumed it, too quickly, which has always been my style. As he prepared dinner, I had another drink, and then a third. They were strong, and I hadnt eaten anything since lunch 6 hours earlier. The chicken went into the oven, and we sat on the couch to chat. I remember asking why he joined the service, as hed indicated he wasnt like the other military types on base. He said he just that he wanted to get out of Puerto Rico. An Officer, Not a Gentleman He poured me another drink and I hesitated, feeling buzzed and growing uncomfortable. I asked when dinner would be ready, and could we get to the movie festival in time. Thats when he leaned over to kiss me. I recoiled. I mean, he was an officer, I was enlisted, and I had a boyfriend. My mind raced. I didnt know what to do. I said I had to use the bathroom and he pointed to a door in the hallway. I headed in that direction, my face red, feeling really uncomfortable. When I opened the bathroom door to exit he was standing there with his pants off. He grabbed me in a huge bear hug and pushed me into the adjacent bedroom. I stiffened and said I wasnt interested - that I had a boyfriend, that I really felt sick to my stomach, that I didnt know about sex (all true). Please, I thought we were going to see old movies. Please let me go, I feel nauseous. Please stop. Please dont do this. Please, please, please. Please. He was stronger than me. He twisted my arms behind me and started pawing at my clothes - my boyish, unattractive clothes. He pulled until he created a burn between the denim and my thighs. He pulled at my underpants until they tore. He jumped on top of me as I pulled to turn sideways. His voice was angry now. Frozen It was over in a few moments - he was quick to come to completion. I was frozen in a curled position, with my clothes draped over me. He grunted, Get up, Ill take you back to the base. I didnt know what to do. Should I go with him? Should I get a cab? I said Id go with him. I pulled my clothes back around me and stood there trembling. He drove me to the base, and I jumped out of the car. My room was in a dorm-like setting, and I shared a bunk with an Army gal, African American, who outranked me. She wasnt home as she was on a date. I jumped into the shower and probably stood there for over an hour. I didnt cry. I tried, and couldnt. But I scrubbed and grew angry at myself, at him, at my life choices. Admitting I Had Been Raped Monday - three days later - I went to class. At noon, I went to the base chaplain, a Catholic priest, a Navy officer, and told him what happened. It wasnt easy, and I never looked up from my hands in my lap. Did I lose my virginity, he asked, or was that something I had already done prior to Friday evening? Well, I admitted, I dont think this did that because†¦oh, God – I remembered something - this man had a child-size penis. I knew what they looked like - I had two younger brothers and changed my share of diapers. No, I hadnt bled. Was there any chance I was pregnant, the Navy priest then asked. I finally looked up, still red from having stated aloud the miniscule size of the doctors penis. What? Could I be pregnant? He continued that if there was any chance of pregnancy, I could never consider an abortion. What? Pregnant? That was the least of my concerns, I mumbled. I was...yes, admit it†¦I had been raped. I mean, yes, I went in his car. Yes, I had drinks. Yes, I knew he was an officer and I was enlisted. But we were going to go watch old movies. But†¦ but†¦ Discouraging Guidance I waited a week, and my period came. One thing to NOT worry about, I suppose. Then I called my mom, who had a house full of little kids still. I told her what happened - and thats when I finally cried. She was audibly upset and asked what would happen. I had no clue, I told her. I promised I would go back to the chaplain Monday and seek guidance. Monday, I visited the chaplain - and told him I wasnt pregnant. He seemed relieved and then asked what next. I told him, I think the man should be punished. Would he help me through that process? He squirmed and said that since I hadnt filed a police report immediately - that since Id showered immediately after the incident - it would be a difficult case. A case of he said, she said. I said I was angry and that what he did was wrong – and I wanted to pursue it. He made an appointment with my commanding officer, and I met with the man Tuesday, who spoke a lot of legalese to me and said hed get back to me. There was a woman secretary, a high ranking enlisted Navy woman, taking notes. I couldnt tell if she was sympathetic or not to my story, as she was absolutely stone-faced. Perhaps shed heard it all before. Didnt Want the Mess Wednesday after class I was walking to my bunk to unwind, grab a bite, and try to do homework when I saw a black Trans Am approaching me. It slowed to a crawl, I stopped, and then it raced past me, spewing pebbles and dust. Obviously, the driver was pissed at me, and I felt afraid. Someone must have said something to him. I spoke to my mom again that weekend. She was crying and told me to drop charges - that I would be the one on trial, that my father had spoken to an attorney and they decided that they didnt want the mess dragged through the local papers back home, that Id have to find a way to move on. I met with the commanding officer and made him an offer; if theyd let me go into photojournalism, as Id originally signed up for, Id not pursue anything against the doctor. Within 48 hours, I had new orders: a week medical leave at home, and then Id join the next military journalism program starting in Indianapolis at an Army base. I had made no real friends at the base, and other than my roommate who was kind and considerate during my time of stress, the few folks I knew from boot camp didnt know how to treat me. I was happy to leave. Where the Men Were in Charge Of course, then there were more problems at home. My dads attorney suggested that I talk to a shrink, as my dad said - a profession my father had very little use for. I went, and the mental health professional wrote up a report and sent to my former commanding officer, and one to my upcoming commanding officer, that I was immature and really wasnt a good candidate for a life in the military. I joined the journalism program, came in second in my class, made friends, maintained a long-distance pen-pal relationship with the boy back home, but started struggling as I got to my new duty station in North Carolina. Back in a world where the men were in charge, despite the obvious women of rank around, I started getting angry and upset and lonely. I refused to work one day, and the shrink back home - per my dads attorneys advice - sent along his report. A higher ranking woman suggested that it would be a rough few weeks, but if I wanted to get out, that boycotting work was one way to do it. Honorable Discharge I met with the bases commanding officer, who had all my files - my episode in Florida, my decision not to press charges, my letters from doctors back home, and my test scores. He expressed concern that I chose not to honor my contract with the Marines, but as a dad to young daughters, he wished me well. He asked me to promise him that I would go back to school, even part-time, and try to contribute something positive. I received an honorable discharge a year and a day after I started boot camp. To this day, I cant remember the Navy doctors name - or his face, thank God. Im thankful that one man, my final commanding officer, treated me with some respect. Homecoming My boyfriend, whod stuck by me when I was away, proposed as soon as I returned home, but then started acting uncomfortable in my presence, and as I assumed he started seeing other girls, we broke up. I went back to my job, making up excuses for why I was home so soon. My cousins got wind of my seeing a psychologist and just last year I had to correct one of them as they were joking that I couldnt handle the service so my dad had to get me out. I finally looked one in the eye and said, Do you know that I was raped by an officer when I was there? That shut them up, but Ive lost interest in family gatherings. (Of course, these are the cousins who are right-of-center pro-military, never having served themselves). Questions Without Answers Ive never written this down, ever. Id told the story - to the chaplain, to my CO and his secretary, to the psychologist back home, a version to my bunkmate. As I type this right now my temples are throbbing, and my face and ears are burning and red. Ive looked back over the years and asked myself, Why did I say Id go to the film festival with him? Ive questioned my posture, my wardrobe, my jokes, my drinks. Of course, Ive questioned my timidity at the exact moment I shouldve turned into she-woman or something. I was a 20-year-old, non-sexually active moron. I was cornered, I got trapped, by a bigger man with a tiny penis. The priest could only care about abortion. My mom could only care about the local papers (although, as a mom now myself, I can imagine the pain she personally went through, trying to keep her anxiety from my younger siblings - but shes decided now, after all these years, that I made it up just to get out of the service - and I cant convince her otherwise. Ive decided not to bring it up again). No Knives, No Fists...But Still Rape I read stories of women who may or may not have been in relationships that got out of hand in the military, and I sometimes read about the young woman, beaten or worse, as she was raped. Me? Just bear-hugged overpowered and bruised – no knives, no fists. But I cant shake the sudden stomach pains I have this moment - that, and the reddened face.