I see their columns and their comments, their Facebook posts and their tweets. It seems a lot of people are spending a lot of their time thinking about ribbons and the distribution thereof. The inappropriate awarding of ribbons has apparently been the source of great suffering in the lives of many.
"Not everyone deserves a sticker!" I read in the same vein last week, and this morning, I promise you that someone, somewhere, ordered a non-fat latte in a busy coffee shop, but the latte they received was made with two-per-cent milk and their name was spelled wrong on the paper cup. I know without reading their anguished essay on those events that they are certain that the blame for this travesty lies squarely on the shoulders of their barista's second-grade gym teacher – that ribbon-bequeathing madman. And, of course, that disappointing coffee provider's mother, who let Bad Barista keep that ribbon when they brought their treasure home, thus breeding entitlement – a quality which, if you believe these people, is responsible for the fall of the Roman Empire.
The mother and her ribbon-pride – her ribbon-extorting ways – is usually posited as the root of society's awards crisis. The ground between "helicopter parent" and "neglectful mother" is the size of the ideal packed lunch, which is to say, it is an illusion. There's either too much or too little sugar, always. Maternal goalposts move faster than a hockey net being whisked off the road at the shout of "Car!" because, apparently, you think your little snowflake is too good to grease the wheels of that SUV.
I am not part of the lost so-called "Everyone gets a ribbon" generation. I'm a Generation Xer, not a millennial. I am not part of that generation reportedly – by which I mean, reported everywhere, every week – ruined by out-of-control decorative-tape inflation. Although, the odd thing is, back in the seventies, we were also given ribbons for merely participating.
As I recall, when we signed up for shot put, we got a ribbon just for trying shot put. That's right, we got a ribbon just for showing up at the shot-put event on the other side of the sports field at the allotted time. Small children being notoriously acquisitive of bright objects, a lot of us went and got ribbons. That much is true. We pinned them to our little shirts, and the thing about participation ribbons is, we all knew exactly what they meant, and it wasn't that we won, and I have no reason to think this knowledge was lost to the next generation.
Despite what I keep reading, those ribbons may not explain why millennials work as baristas, or don't work as baristas. Ribbons may not explain why millennials have no ambition, or expect too much out of life, or live in their parents' basements, or pay too much rent and thus carry too much debt. They are likely not why millennials disappoint the ribbon-anxious by simultaneously pushing for a raise or promotion because they're just so entitled, or never asking for a raise or promotion because they're just not motivated.
Those ribbons may not explain some young people being arrogant, or feckless or annoying, as they can, admittedly, be. I am pretty sure young people annoying old people predates not just Sports Day ribbons but the entire textile industry. Young people getting under the skin of older people predates the wheel. Young people standing there being hotter and more energetic and optimistic than you and irritating you for a reason you can't quite put your finger on is a tradition that goes back to the days when our ice-age ancestors complained to each other around the fire.
"Tharg Jr. think too good hunt mammoth with big rock like Tharg Sr. do! Expect (and make) pointy stick! Tharg Jr. no listen to me explain that pointy stick anger Great Sabre Tooth Tiger in Sky, make avalanche! Tharg Jr. roll eyes, check smoke signals at dinner."
I want to reassure the ribbon-anxious that there were different ribbons for winning at those schoolyard events, and also people saying, "Hey! You won! You're great" and trying to recruit you for the shot-put team next year, instead of laughing at you for twirling around three times and then falling over and I don't want to talk about it.
I will say that abject failure and ridicule are not the motivating factors many people make them out to be.
Also, for over a hundred years, the Boston Marathon has been giving out finishers' certificates and medals to everyone who completes the run before the timekeepers pack it in; and last I checked, as of filing anyway, America is still standing. Although I admit it's not looking good.
All these things are souvenirs and, as a means of motivating little children to try a new challenge, an extra ribbon can be helpful. The idea seemed to be to look like a maypole by the end of the day, when everyone at my school also got a Popsicle. That's right, we'd all get Popsicles. Even the total losers. It's amazing we go to work in the mornings instead of wandering around the park, throwing big pine cones and attempting to leap over the lower branches of trees, and then holding up the nearest ice-cream truck because we believe we're entitled (this word is like the centre square in Boomer Bingo) to a frozen treat.
Maybe teachers recognize that the purpose of Sports Day is not to separate the six-year-old standing-long-jump wheat from the six-year-old standing-long-jump chaff, but a lot of other people clearly don't. It keeps them up at night. I have, in the past few years, grown increasingly worried about the seemingly large number of earnest citizens among us who apparently, as children, were not given enough ribbons or medals or stickers. The specific nature of the object they were deprived of varies, but the pain doesn't.
I want to suggest that everyone does deserve a sticker. Because it's a goddamn sticker, and perhaps recognizing the innate value of our fellow beings – and yes, ourselves – will, more than winning or recognizing a winner, one day be the thing that gets us out the door, or stops us from closing the door on someone else.
Anyway, in an effort to make peace, or at least free up some column space, I have a proposal: Dear Young People of the Alleged Participation Award Generation, I ask you to spare a thought and, more importantly, a ribbon for all those inadequately decorated people out there. You might not remember where you put that small piece of cloth your teacher gave you for playing dodge ball that one time. It probably isn't all that important to you after all these years. But know that it weighs heavily on some poor pundit's mind. The next time you see that look in someone's eye that tells you they're just certain they wouldn't be stuck in line behind you at the supermarket if only your teacher had made it clear what a terribly disappointing ball-dodger you were, pull one of those old ribbons out of your pocket and say, "Wow, you're doing a great job being in line to buy onions. This is for you, sport!"
They might be disappointed at first; they have built up some pretty high expectations for the power of these ribbons.
In fact, studies show that these awards mostly just fill up cork boards and the drawers of bedside tables. Well, except for T-ball ribbons. Those things grant the power of levitation, which is pretty neat, I'll grant you.