My mother is a professor of American history, and many of my earliest memories pertaining to her professional life involve her unabashed enthusiasm for this book. Now that I've finally taken the time to read it, I understand why it made such a strong impression. Given that Coontz's book is now more than two decades old, I was expecting that it would perhaps have little to offer someone mired in the concerns of a twenty-first century young adult. And while I found myself glossing over much of the statistical information (most of which I assume is too outdated to be useful outside a purely historical context), I was delighted to find that The Way We Never Were offers a highly intelligent and nuanced look at family life in twentieth century American history. Using the family as a focal lens, the book generates a precise and intriguing image of American communities, economics, and politics in the early 1990s. Best (and worst) of all, it provides frighteningly prescient insights about the risks we face if we sustain certain courses of action inimical to the health of our democracy. And while I'd love to report that we've blazed a new trail in the two decades since this book's original publication, all I can do is marvel at Coontz's remarkable assessment of American problems and lament our continuing inability to address the core issues that are bringing this country to its knees. The most important of these is the hollowing out of the American middle class and the ever-widening gap between normal citizens and the ultra-wealthy, especially when it comes to quality of life and political influence.
As mentioned, my one major critique of this book is that its statistics are only useful for someone seeking to understand where American families were in the early 1990s. This is a problem faced by any aging history book, so I can't fault Coontz for it. Her commendably straightforward writing demonstrates a rare mixture of ambiguity and clarity, making her arguments both accessible and also appropriately difficult to nail down. History, Coontz reminds us, is never as simple as we'd like it to be. She takes careful aim at traditional historical narratives, which typically seek to establish one or two central metaphors and then bend historical events to fit them. Coontz makes it her mission to expose such narratives for what they are: oversimplified myths that obfuscate the truth and prevent communities from meeting problems with the informed, unified action they demand. Coontz is not naive enough to think she can exempt herself entirely from the hordes of historians seeking to condense history for the purposes of analysis and communication to a wide audience, but she maintains a high level of scholarly integrity by carefully circumscribing the follies of both liberal and conservative ideologies. I carefully parsed her assertions for signs of unfair bias, but ultimately had to conclude that her motives stem from a sincere desire to serve up an authentic historical account, rather than from feckless ideology. It's a "truth be told" approach, and an admirable one.
Though Coontz does a great job of demonstrating the problems with dualistic assessments of historical trends (individual/community, wealthy/poor, devious/virtuous), she can't escape wading through the swamp of our national tendency to break down social problems into simple, easily consumed bites that almost always demonize some force or set of forces, either internal or external, for which we are not ultimately responsible. And while she certainly does not shy away from the huge obstacles families face when trying to overcome powers beyond their immediate control, Coontz's larger purpose is to point out that the process of reviving America, insofar as it is possible, must start inside each of us and then slowly expand into our family circles and greater communities. Coontz refuses to let anyone off the hook, although she is appropriately sympathetic with the most vulnerable members of our society, most of whom lack the stability and resources to concern themselves with matters beyond daily survival and the maintenance of highly parochial bonds. Through the painstaking process of setting up accepted myths and then exposing the ways they fail to sow the seeds of pragmatic action, she implores us to get comfortable with ambiguity and run historical events through multiple, self-correcting filters. One key way way to achieve this balance is to consider how various ideological factions (liberal, conservative, libertarian, etc.) tend to support the use of force and/or government regulation to rein in the actions of opposing groups, but then protest vehemently when similar restraints are placed on behaviors deemed permissible by the in-group––an outlook bolstered by contemporary research explicating the profound effect of tribalism on our psychological dispositions. To her credit, Coontz's personal agenda doesn't appear to extend beyond the general goal of improving life for all Americans; she successfully eschews sectarianism, and instead focuses on laying bare our true enemy: human frailty as embodied in our most cherished and often spurious stories.
While this book was fascinating to me for intellectual reasons, it also achieved a deeper level of personal resonance. Coontz was able to penetrate my armor of reasoning and reach my more vulnerable, emotional side. She did this by defrocking some of the mechanisms I use to justify my own lifestyle, most notably my readiness to embrace cynicism about the prospects of success for almost any social or political movement. Like many millennials, I have little faith in collective action. I often scoff at people who want to "make a difference" beyond the world they can see and touch, even as I harbor small illusions of somehow being able to do so. These illusions almost always involve achieving some small, personal goal, or one that I share with a small number of like-minded people. I don't blame myself entirely for embracing this kind of thinking, which is endemic in my generation as well as in our increasingly polarized American communities, but I also can't distance myself entirely from this approach to life. It's always easier to stay on the sidelines and claim status as a non-participant when things don't work out. Beyond my personal aspirations, which seem to grow ever smaller and less ambitious as the years pass, this has been my general approach to life. And I think it's fair to say that won't change very much, certainly not very quickly. But Coontz's book has helped to articulate something in me, the reawakening of a need for community that always lurks under the surface. Time will tell whether this desire will transcend beyond mere velleity, but for now it has gained a greater degree of influence in my committee of self.