What I Did the Day the Bombs Dropped: A Gen X Guide for the End

I was a teenager in the early 80’s living in a house decorated more like the mid 70’s (“Why do we need a new couch? This one still holds us.”). I had puffy hair with wings, eyeglasses featuring rose tint lenses, a “Choose Life” T-shirt, and a beagle named Snoopy (The first of the 7 beagles I’ve had in my life).

We owned a wooden cabinet console television that weighed as much as a bank vault and featured a TV, AM/FM radio (only the AM worked), record player and record slots (it had 6 slots, which we somehow managed to cram 28 records in. Seriously, Magnavox? Who owned just 6 records?) and a storage container with a slide-open top that sorta functioned as a mini-bar. There was no remote. As the person in the house with the youngest knees, it was my job to get up and change the channel. Fortunately, there were only 3 networks so we pretty much just picked one channel and watched it all night long.

Sunday night at my house? Wonderful World of Disney, 60 Minutes, Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom and the NBC Mystery Movie (Fantasy, News, Animals, Murder - in case you’re wondering how I got this way). You know what else I watched on that old console? Warnings about nuclear war. Every. Damn. Day. At least, it felt like it. It wasn’t enough I had to listen to Dan Rather talk about “tensions” through every dinner, I also had to participate in bomb drills at school. I lived in a town with a large military base so we were considered a likely target.

The conflict between the US and USSR in the early 80’s pretty much made you feel like a nuclear bomb was going to drop on your house, school, or favorite store at the mall (Orange Julius!) any day. Once, when Van Halen announced they had a summer tour date in our town, a history teacher told our class there was no point saving for tickets because we would probably be in nuclear winter by then. We couldn’t tell if he was kidding, going through mid-life depression, or being very real. So, we bought the tickets (It was awesome!).

That same history teacher would grumble every time we had a “duck and cover” drill. It stopped instruction, wasted time, and was incredibly pointless, he argued. One day, while “tensions” were high and “troops were being moved” (and Van Halen was only 4 months away!) we heard the school siren and he said, “No! Sit in your seat. Read your book. Work on your homework. Write notes to friends.”

So we sat in silence, looking at each other, unsure he was going to get in trouble and take us with him, or if time itself would just stop with this flouting of the social order. After a few minutes one of the braver boys in class spoke up.

“What if this isn’t a drill? What if the bomb is coming?” He asked. The balding teacher sat on his desk, his polyester suit pants pulling up to reveal his severe black nylon establishment socks.

“Look, I’m going to tell you what you really need to do if Russia bombs us. Not this stupid get under your desk nonsense.” He took a big breath, possibly savoring the only time the whole year when every student was looking at him and listening. “The most important place to be when a nuclear bomb hits is…right underneath it. It’s better to die in an instant than suffer the radioactive hell that will come after. Accept it.”

The bell rang, and we all kind of stumbled out of class in grim silence. Personally, I was thinking of things I hadn’t done, really pissed I could die before seeing Van Halen, and mostly just hoping that no matter where I was when it happened, Snoopy would be with me so we could go together.

My next class was film analysis, and our teacher took note of the horror stricken faces a few of us still had from history. We told her about our history class and ranted about how unfair it was to die as teenagers because the adults who were in charge of things couldn’t get their shit together. She listened from her chair by the video projector.

“I know it’s angering and frightening and we could spend all day on this, but there really is something much more important than the cold war and nuclear bombs. It’s the use of lighting in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet."

She turned on the film and we were enthralled with candlelight, torchlight and sunlight as ways to show the character’s motivation and mood. Other than making sure to give Snoopy an extra big kiss on the ears when I got home, the horrific “how to die from a bomb” lesson never affected me again.

Now, over 40 years later, it’s a child with power who is in charge of the bombs and the adults are the ones trying to keep our shit together. Still, the day Romeo and Juliet saved me from despair is guiding me through this time, and maybe you can find some light there too.

Candlelight

Candlelight is small but steady. It flickers but it does not falter. This is the light of self-compassion, ritual, and rest. It’s a warm bath, a handwritten letter, a cup of tea held with both hands. It’s reading poetry instead of doomscrolling. It's letting yourself cry. It’s caring for your soul because the world is not as fair or calm as you’d like. . In candlelight, you see your own face clearly. That’s where hope begins.

The day we bombed Iran I watched a movie, sent a note to a friend, played “Ball-in-the-Hall” with my beagle Bloom and shared a snack with my other beagle Barkley. I took a bath with lavender soap and had a cup of jasmine pearl tea.

Torchlight

A torch is a portable light. Stronger than a candle, it can light the way forward. I imagine a real torch is not only a source of more light - it’s also hotter and more dangerous than Indiana Jones has led us to believe. Still, torchlight moves. This is your to-do list, your daily rituals, your chores, your deadlines. Torchlight doesn’t pretend everything is fine, but it insists you keep going. It's the light you raise when you walk the dogs, fold the laundry, go to work, vote, donate, or help a neighbor. It’s how you keep the story moving. The world doesn’t stop spinning, so neither do you.

The day we bombed Iran I stopped by the office and did some work that needed to be done, did my daily practice and meditation, took Barkley and visited a family friend, started laundry that sat in the dryer until the next day, and made an appointment for the car’s air conditioner to get fixed.

Sunlight

Sunlight belongs to everyone. It is vast, bright, and generous. This is the light of community, witness, and prayer. It’s awareness, listening with compassion, protesting without hate, being fully present when others speak their fears. It’s choosing connection over blame. Sunlight invites us to live with open palms and lifted eyes. Even in a crisis. Even now. With self-care and life work in motion, sunlight reminds us that we are connected to each other and no matter what shadow or storm befalls - we are not alone.

The day we bombed Iran I said loving kindness mantras for as many people as I could remember, read enough to get a picture of what had happened, registered my opposition on social media (I don’t think that helps the world, but it makes me feel like I at least voiced my concerns) and started listening to what others had to say.

How do we get through this? Read, listen, care, pray, learn, use all three kinds of light - and buy those concert tickets - because there’s always a chance that the concert will be awesome.