People have a lot to say about my generation. They say we don’t know how to party. That we don’t read the news. That we don’t know how to approach people of the opposite sex. That we don’t drink, don’t know how to have fun, don’t even know how to properly order a drink.
Don’t tell that to the more than 300 Free Pressers who gathered in New York and Washington, D.C., earlier this week for our first ever under-30 parties.
In New York, the crowd flowed from the party into the street. (And somehow we found the only bar in the city that still lets you smoke inside.) I watched hedge funders talking tech with Bernie stans; a psychology student and a bass player making plans for a date next week; Catholics and Jews debating. . . everything.
The night was proof of what I’ve known to be true since my first day at The Free Press: I’ve found my people.
People flew in from Canada and took trains and buses from Boston and Delaware to New York and D.C. We danced to Chappel Roan and Usher, toasted with overfilled martinis, and flirted with our future husbands, wives, and ex-boyfriends. The night ended the way all good parties do: with a noise complaint.
As I said when I got into work the next day: It was the best night of my life. The Boomers in the newsroom laughed with not a small amount of pity that neither my prom nor college graduation held a candle. But the night was proof of what I’ve known to be true since my first day at The Free Press: I’ve found my people.
In part that’s because college wasn’t so much the best days of my life as it was a hard-learned lesson in going against the mob. I lost friends, party invites, and grades for saying out loud what I took for granted to be normal assertions: that the West is good; that we’re lucky to live in America; that there are differences between men and women; that Israel has a right to exist.
As everyone around me seemed to be losing their minds, I wrote a cold email to Bari asking for a life boat. I told her I’d shine her shoes or clean her floors. So perhaps I was losing mine, too.
But she responded and gave me an internship—and then a job. In the four years since, a lot has changed at The Free Press. But perhaps one of the most meaningful changes is that I’m no longer the only person under 30. In fact, young people, just like the ones I met earlier this week, are slowly taking over our newsroom (soon my editor will be a labubu). That fact alone gives me, and I hope you, a lot of optimism about Gen Z.
So to the Gen Z doomers, I say: You’ve never been to a Free Press party.
And to the Gen Z optimists: We’ll see you next time.
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