The Woes of a Gen Z Graduate

It is December of 2023. I am a recent college graduate. I am home. I am safe. I am fortunate enough to enjoy a gap semester before I begin my journey to a Ph.D. But I am not at peace. I cannot be at peace.

I recently started knitting again. It was a hobby I started years ago. My grandmother taught me how to knit gifted me my first pair of needles when she learned that I was interested in fashion design. She taught me how to knit a scarf. Creating has always been my source of comfort. It's a blessing that comfort and escape from the world can come in something as small as $8 knitting needles.

I bought my new needles at a craft store. It was the end of another virtual work week, so I decided to "treat" myself. I initially went out to buy myself a cupcake, but noticed the store in the neighboring strip mall. It felt like a sign. I hadn't let myself have hobbies or freedoms outside of my career and family. Naturally, everyone I had told me to embrace self-care.

So many of my friends had taken up crocheting thanks to TikToks and reels of cute bottle holders and customizable sweaters, hoping the knots and stitches would tie up the world in a harmless little bow. A pandemic on the news? At least I learned to slip-stitch today. Another hateful politician set to rule the world? Thank God, I finally finished this row. The ice caps are melting? I could try a new pattern.

Despite the voice telling me to save the paycheck that came in at 9 A.M. (it’s hard not to sit around checking your bank app in this economy), I turned into the parking lot. The lights inside were too bright. The aisles were too full. I immediately regretted leaving my masks in the car. I walked down the aisle, silently. To my left were two gossiping friends with tumblers in hand, excitedly gossiping as they picked up Christmas decorations. To my right, was the hunched-over form of a stressed dad. He couldn’t figure out which crayon box to buy. His hand reached for a 64-pack before quickly shaking his head and looking down the aisle again. I didn’t envy him; no amount of crayons could ever satisfy the hopeful imaginations of a toddler.

Eventually, I got my needles and got out of the store. The conversation with the cashier was short. I tried to smile, but it's hard to be hopeful about $15/hr. I quietly walked to my car and put the needles to the side. I almost turned on the radio. Almost. It was something I hadn't done since high school, thanks to my perfectly curated playlists. Why would I listen to trending TikTok songs when I could obscure but somehow highly recommended R&B artist from Norway dropped a new EP? I switched to the radio station synced with my car lighter adapter and grabbed my phone. I saw the black outline of Twitter (yes, Twitter) and immediately forgot that I was looking for Spotify. I scrolled for a few minutes before noticing I had to squint. The sun had gone down. The street lights were on. I drove home in silence.

In the driveway I thought of turning my phone on again. I decided against it and hurriedly entered my house. I greeted my family in the living room and scurried up the steps, hoping to escape the neverending household tasks of a multi-generational home. It was a quick unboxing before I happily resumed my seat on the left side of my queen bed. I thought to open my phone again. For the first time in a while, I thought about what I was getting myself into on my phone. I thought about opening apps and seeing so many faces, some vaguely familiar, some totally unknown. I thought about how different social media had become. No longer just timely posts from my loved ones and acquaintances I had made a silent contract with to mutual stalk on random nights. I thought about the constant barrage of ads that I had subjected myself to under the guise of connectedness. How odd it is to see strangers so regularly and intimately, yet not know them at all. All of them feigning familiar and closeness, even though they are people that I had never met or welcomed into my life. Instead of feeling personal, every face on my phone feels like a detached, imagined character. I thought about all of them--working and creating "content."

Are they doing it because it brings them joy? Is the constant editing really better than a 9-5? Should I be doing it too? What does it say about me if every decision I make is prescribed to me by an unrecognizable face and said by a voice I do not know? Can I even think for myself anymore? Can they? Do they know that they are taking part in a perpetual virtual pyramid scheme? Do they know that all the influencing and selling each other to each other happens as hard workers type away in dark corners behind dim computers while a secret man leans back, arms behind his head, feet kicked back, on a pile of cash rising up to the sky higher than the tower of Babel? What is it like to have strangers bring you free things as long as you promise to bring them money? Does it feel good? Does it haunt them? Do they know the hands that slaved away to bring those products to them? Is it all a facade? Or are they miserable, only doing this as a second job to make ends meet? What does it say about our world if this is what's necessary to have any semblance of a life? Is this socializing? Do I know any of you? Who started this risky experiment at falsified intimacy?

The thoughts kept coming as I scrolled and swiped. As I skipped and searched.

As I saved. As I shared to my friends. As I snorted, but never laughed. As I watched, but didn't like.

I scrolled and I swiped until my eyes pulsed and my neck ached. My side screamed from hours of contortion. My body felt uneasy. I was too warm and too cold. I couldn't feel my feet or my hands. My heart started to pound in an unwelcome but not unfamiliar way. I started to close in on myself.

I deleted the apps and threw my phone across the bed.

Then I picked up the needles.

I made a knot and casted on. The first row was simple. Familiar. I excitedly grabbed the second needle, but froze. Somewhere between college apps, scholarship acceptances, a pandemic, orientation, crying through fluid dynamics, the start of lifelong friendships, an insurrection, budding romance, internships designing rockets, the end of friendships, and a 90-page thesis, I had forgotten how to start the second row.

The second row is supposed to be "easier." From the second row on, knitting should be unconscious. All it needs is for the mind to be calm. It only asks for familiarity and repetition. There is an acute innate awareness that you must not let a loop fall through. The yarn must not cut. The needle must always be with the yarn. Every stitch relies on a connection to the predecessor.

The motions felt familiar but distant. I kept going.

Push the needle into the stitch. Pull the yarn between the needles. Lift the stitch off the first needle. Pull the yarn tight. Repeat.

I kept trying while more thoughts slipped into my mind.

Push the needle. My hands are cold. It's so cold outside.

Pull the yarn. It's warmer now than the past few years. Why doesn't anyone do anything to stop climate change?

Lift the stitch. At least I have a bed to stay warm in. And a home. The homelessness in this city is horrible.

Pull tight. I thought I voted for the right person. How do leaders that ignore the people keep their power?

Push the needle. Just because of lobbying? But where does the public's funding go? Pull the yarn. All of this for money? Lift the stitch. Will I even have a job, or savings? Pull tight. The minimum wage in this state hasn't changed since 2009. Push. Will there be a life for me in fifty years? Pull. Maybe I can buy one shirt from Shein. Lift. Who thought plastic clothes was a good idea? Pull. I'm need thicker socks. Push. I can't afford new clothes. Pull. Why did I buy needles and yarn? Lift. I can't- Pull. It's just- Push. The world- Push.

Wait.

The inevitable mistake. Push the needle then pull the yarn. Don't push and push.

The loop is almost undone. Almost. I can save this.

Push the needle into the stitch. Pull the yarn between the needles. Lift the stitch off the first needle. Pull the yarn tight.

Push the needle into the stitch. Pull the yarn between the needles. Lift the stitch. Pull the yarntight.

Push the needle. Pull the yarn. Lift the stitch. Pull tight.

Push.

Pull.

Lift.

Pull.

Push. Pull. Lift. Pull.

Push. Pull. Lift. Pull. Push. Pull. Lift. Pull. Push. Pull. Lift. Pull.Push. Pull. Lift. Pull.

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I've been doing that every night for weeks. Push. Pull. Lift. Pull. Push. Pull. Lift. Pull. I don't think about anything when I do it anymore. I suppose this is what I wanted.