The (Real) Cutlural Gap

After writing from Beijing for a couple of years, some would expect this post to be about the cultural gap between East and West, between American and Chinese.  It’s not.  Not even close.  It’s between me and my children.  Between my generation (AKA the old generation) and my children’s generation (AKA the new age)…

Let me start by stating that my children’s generation doesn’t have a clue about culture.  Their heroes are shallow, skinny, and beautiful.  Unlike our generation’s heroes, who were really deep and much bigger.  Singers who can’t sing, celebrities who make it big for winning some stupid reality show.

Having said that, I thought that there’s no way I’m ever joining the kids to a show, with all those punks, particularly not around the holidays.  It’s a waste of time and money, and what you get in return is headaches, stomachache, and ripped eardrums.  Plus your wallet becomes significantly skinnier on account that theirs is getting bigger.  Forget it.

Every year around Hanukkah, kids around Israel start to nag their parents for tickets for the Festigal.  It’s not a typo.  It’s some kind of a combination of words between festival and, well, something else.  This festival is an opportunity for all the quasi-famous local celebrities to make a quick buck.  It’s a serious production, it takes place at stadiums around the country, they go through five shows every day to keep the momentum going.  It’s not unusual to see an actor or two collapse during one of the later shows.  Exhaustion.  You pay, they dance and sing themselves to oblivion.  The show must go on.

Obviously, when my wife suggested that we all go this year, I strictly refused.  I planned on spending some quality time in front of the TV, hanging out with friends, or just making up some missing sleeping time.  I therefore find it extremely unlikely that I did get dressed and drove to town, parked the car and marched with the rest of the herd and their loud youngsters to watch the Festigal.  For the first time.

I was already planning this post.  I knew that I’d use my sharp language to describe how bad the show was, how terrible the lessons are for the children, how I’m never going again, and how I’d even reconsider allowing my kids to attend.

But as soon as the show started, I found myself having a great time.  I couldn’t help noticing the choreography, the outfits, even the scripts.  The music was OK in terms of 1980s pop music, and the special effects were, well, really special.

The kids, not mine only, were thrilled.  They kept recognizing people from unknown TV shows, and commercials.  My five year old was practically glued to the action on stage.  To make a long story long, I even bought the DVD…

Clearly, I’m experiencing what my father experienced when I was growing up.  He thought Mozart and Beethoven were culture, and that Led Zeppelin was junk.  He loved Elvis, and the Platters, and hated Fleetwood Mac.  Pink Floyd, my favorite band ever, was considered by him as noise.  He thought that the source of all evil in the world was hard rock.

It stops right here.  While I don’t have to like it, I acknowledge – my children are entitled to have their own taste in music and culture, and it certainly can be different than my own.  I will respect it, and in the case of the Festigal, I even liked it.