Were the 70s Necessary?

When I read that Robin Gibb had died the other day, I admit, I probably didn’t give him his due. Instead, I responded as any good little narcissist would and began to reflect on my life as it relates to the musical success of the Brothers Gibb.  Their high point contrasted against my low point. I’ve never been a Bee Gees fan.

It isn’t that I disliked the falsetto sound of the Bee Gees. But I wouldn’t exactly say I liked it either. As I took a brief journey back in time I realized that the somewhat strident songs of Robin, Barry, and Maurice in some ways mirrored the strident sounds of my own emotional song. During that era, anyway. Robin and his brothers never left me with warm, cozy feelings. The problem wasn’t the Bee Gee’s, though. The problem was my life.

The 70s wasn’t really my decade.

For me the era was fraught with darkness, sadness, and fear. I wasn’t a happy soul and as I remember it, Vietnam, Watergate, and long lines at gas pumps made for significant cultural and economic depression as well. I spent the better part of the 70s feeling as though I was suffocating. There just wasn’t enough air. The Bee Gees were crooning about staying alive; I was trying my hardest to do so. If not physically, certainly emotionally. It is difficult for me to use the words ‘happy’ and ‘childhood’ in the same sentence. My parents weren’t bad people, they just skipped the part in the parenting handbood that said they should nurture their children with at least as much investment as their mental illnesses and addictions.

And, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, in the latter part of the70s, I started getting asked out on dates by young men in terrible, shiny, Quina shirts. If that doesn’t make you question the purpose of life, I don’t know what does! One in particular stands out. Shirt, I mean. I don’t recall the young man’s name. I don’t actually recall going on a date with him. I don’t even remember what he looked like. All I can conjure is his horrible polyester shirt. There I was, terrified of life because of a messed up childhood, a screwed up family, a dead father, a mother who considered me burden, and now dates with young men in disco shirts.

Truly, it is a wonder I survived.

But I did. By moving far, far away from the madness and drama. By learning to breathe. And laugh. By praying a lot and by figuring out that joy and pain can be all mixed up together; and acknowledging and telling the truth about both makes for a richer life. I discovered that I could learn from sadness and be thankful for what it taught me. I learned that sometimes people hurt me on purpose and sometimes they do it out of ignorance but, either way, it is what I do with the hurt that matters in the end.

Most importantly, I learned to forgive.

Most of the time. Once in a while I briefly wallow in anger and bitterness about the past but then I find it robs me of joy and life and love in the present. And those things are just too important today for me hold on to old hurts from yesterday. So I release them and let them go. Until the next time I feel like wallowing. It’s not a perfect system, but it is honest.

I can usually turn those feelings around without much effort these days. I left my mother’s home at age 17. I’ve had more than enough good years to make up for the crummy ones growing up.

There have not, however, been enough years of good fashion to compensate for iconic 70s disco shirts. Those things still traumatize me.