Generation ‘X’ for Xenophobia
Looking back, it’s no wonder they slapped an “X” on our generation. But it was always a misfit label. “X” usually marks the spot—something exact. But there was nothing exact about growing up in the 80s and early 90s. We were caught in the biggest identity crisis in human history. It wasn’t just puberty—it was cultural puberty. And we were the pimply-faced guinea pigs.
It was the birth of Music Identity Politics—back when who you listened to was who you were. Over time, the “music” dropped off, and we were left with plain old Identity Politics, now sterilized and sold back to us with hashtags.
I noticed it first in third grade: boys liked Michael Jackson, girls liked Madonna. That was the law. No internet. No TikTok. Just landlines, lunchroom rumors, Tiger Beat, and passing notes during math class. Our “social network” was a school dance and a dumbbell phone attached to the wall. Hip-hop wasn’t on the map yet, but breakdancing was—if you could do a backspin, you were king. Headspin? Royalty. Everyone else? Nerds.
In Revenge of the Nerds, we learned that “nerd” just meant “anyone who wasn’t a white jock with a popped collar.” That movie today would be called Revenge of The Others: the Asian math kid, the computer geek (different guy), the fat kid, the booger kid, the depressed goth girl, the burnout headbanger, and the black kid—who, conveniently for casting costs, was also the gay kid. (Two birds, one budget.) Actually, in the 80s, gay + black = comedy gold!
Music was our identity. Sure, we all listened to the Top 40 like good little sheep, but at home—alone, headphones on—that’s when we really became ourselves. Or tried to. Because back then, the wrong music got you labeled. And the label that hung over every locker, every bus ride, every lunch table was the same: “gay.” Not “other”, not “freak” — gay. Plain and simple.
Did you like New Wave? “Gay.”
Skinny tie? “Gay.”
Flock of Seagulls? “Gay gay gay.”
Boy George? Forget it—might as well walk into gym class wearing a fucking tutu.
Quick story: When I was 8, my 12-year-old brother told me Boy George sang “Cum-a-Cum-a-Chameleon” because gay guys ejaculated in rainbow colors. He said that’s how you knew. (Years later, I remember being relieved mine was just boring ol’ white.)
If you liked metal, you were safe. Burnouts didn’t fuck around. They worshipped Judas Priest, Slayer, Sabbath, and Satan. (No one fucked with that.) I liked Van Halen. Big mistake. The metalheads on the bus let me have it. “Gay,” they said. Funny, because Judas Priest frontman Rob Halford turned out to be actually gay—biker cap, leather, the whole thing. But that flew right over their mulleted heads, probably while they were watching Police Academy for the hundredth time and still not getting the joke about The Blue Oyster Bar.
If you were a jock? Not gay.
Long hair, drugs, and in a band? Not gay.
Played drums and had good weed? Cool.
Nice guy who got along with everyone, maybe didn’t fit in anywhere? You guessed it—gay.
Smart? Geek.
Geek? Gay.
Liked anything that deviated even slightly from straight white macho posturing? “GAY.”
Hell, even your earring placement was a declaration of sexuality. Left ear = straight. Right ear = gay. Or was it the other way around? Either way, someone was always checking your lobes like a TSA agent for signs of deviance.
We grew up afraid to like what we liked, terrified to be who we were, and obsessed with making sure no one thought we were “gay.” The irony? By those standards, most of us were a little gay because we liked what we liked. We just didn’t have the language—or the balls—to admit it. And we didn’t know how many others felt the same way, because the only thing louder than our Walkmans was the shame machine cranked up by Reagan’s America.
So yeah, Gen X was the most xenophobic, homophobic generation of all. But it wasn’t entirely our fault. We were raised in a blender of mass media, mass confusion, and mass repression. And somehow, from that radioactive mess, some of us still grew up to be halfway human.
The rest are still arguing about pronouns on Facebook.
—P.
