13 years ago, I was one of them. An obnoxious middle-schooler who wanted nothing more than to gossip and chat with my girlfriends on the long bus ride from school to wherever our teachers thought it was imperative to take us, no matter how dull and void of educational value.
With my friends, we made fun of the Abercrombie obsessed bubble-gum popping, flirty future cheerleaders and pined over the boys that circled “yes I like you”. Superficial, angsty adolescent behavior for sure, but that’s how it was.
Sitting in a packed Eurostar train car headed for London, with over 20 French 12 or 13 year olds was a lesson in getting older. I was instantly reminded of conversations I used to have with my parents around the time Alanis Morissette broke out onto the music scene, about the drastic changes in styles and tastes since they were my age. I said to myself, one day Alanis songs will be “oldies” and I will feel old.
In the last year or so, Abercrombie has become nauseatingly popular in Paris, mostly among bourgeois adolescents who try desperately to appropriate anything anglo-saxon into their wardrobes and vocabularies. Since the brand became available in London and online, Frenchies young and old (old being relative here) can’t wait to spend their hard earned euros (or those of their parents) on a little piece of trendy America. Their obsession with trendy and often expensive apparel and electronics is indicative of a generation heavily influenced by celebrities, trends and Americanization.
What shocked me even more than their label lust was how quickly their little fingers fluttered on the keys of the newest Blackberry model. Blackberry’s, iPods, reflex cameras – I’m still trying to figure out what a 12 year old needs expensive equipment for. Their incessant messaging on facebook reminded me that the platform has evolved enormously since its beginnings as a University student-only service, of which I have been a member since 2004.
What’s worse, the young girls, well on their way to becoming vapid, materialistic fashionistas spent the better part of the trip photographing themselves with pursed lips and seductive raccoon eyes, teasing the boys who longingly gawked in their seats. After 25 minutes of self-portaits and group shots, I knew every angle of their faces.
“ok, let’s do another one but let me take my hair down” one said as she shook her hair down from its ponytail, seemingly imitating an Herbal Essences commercial.
“Wait, my bangs!” “Sit on my lap!”
The boys who weren’t drooling over these impromptu photo shoots were busy toiling away on their pocket Playstation, watching videos on their cell phones or listening to American hip-hop.
This group could not have been more rife of gender-stereotypes. I know they are probably not much different than Anglo-Saxon kids but it was still unbelievable to witness the unadulterated consumerism and the beginnings of a love affair with “things” that they wholeheartedly believe will make their lives better. I fear that the next step is permanent tattoos that boast brand loyalty.
But what made me feel old was not so much the behaviors which I found sad and somehow disappointing, but rather the way they looked at me. I was the uncool and surly 20-something who wanted to stifle their fun.
The 2.5 hour train ride was a slap in the face as I became hyper aware of the vast distance between me and them and increasingly afraid of how this generation will make an impact in the future.
