It’s a big, bad, changing world

Somebody famous once said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I think it may have been a member of the Kardashian family. OK, not really—the only thing the Kardashians have to fear is the fact that fame is fleeting, and their 15 minutes should have passed by now, to borrow a sentiment from another famous person, Andy Warhol. But I digress.

The celebrated individual behind the notion that fear is all we have to fear is the 32nd president of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR, as historians fond of sending their dissertations via text or Twitter referred to him, uttered those words during his first inauguration address in 1933, as the nation writhed in the Great Depression’s grips. 

Despite the enduring power of Roosevelt’s rhetoric, there’s just one thing wrong with his sentiment. It’s inherently incorrect. In reality, there’s a whole lot in this big bad world to fear. The older I get, the more I understand that the things we fear—rightfully so—change with the passing of the decades.

During our earliest years, we are beset with a fear of estrangement from our mother, the giver of life and supplier of sustenance. Psychologists have a fancy phrase for this—separation anxiety. Later, as toddlers we begin to develop a sense of awareness of our surroundings, leading to fears of the beast under our bed, in our closet, in our head, to steal a phrase from Metallica. (Suddenly, this writer has a fear of receiving a letter from the rock group’s attorneys, but I digress…again).

The arrival of the school years does not dissipate our collective fear of the dark. (Digressing yet again, “Fear of the Dark” is the name of an Iron Maiden song I did not like very much “back in the day” but have grown to appreciate over the years as I have discovered I am afraid most of today’s music does, indeed, suck). Throw in the additional phobias that come with elementary and middle school—fear of failure, of ridicule from teachers who don’t understand our differences and from classmates who simply don’t care, of what kind of meat really is floating in the cafeteria’s vegetable “beef” soup—and it’s a wonder the majority of us are able to make it through the wonder years.

As we enter adulthood and join the workforce, we are faced with fears of finding Mister or Miss Right and of landing a job in which we will earn enough to keep a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs and food on the table. Parenthood revives many of those long-dormant childhood fears, not so much because parents suffer directly once again, but because we desperately want our kids to avoid the bullies, wedgies, wet willies and anxieties that made parts of our own youth miserable.

Fear also is generational. For those who came of age during the Cold War practicing the useless concept of “duck and cover” hoping flimsy wooden desks would miraculously shield schoolchildren from megaton mayhem, images of nuclear annihilation still visit dreams on occasion. Those who grew up after the horrors that unfolded in living color on TV screens Sept. 11, 2001, suffer from a fear of being blown out of the skies by terrorists hell-bent on making them atone for sins they were unaware their parents had committed.

Today, in the wake of the deaths of Trayvon Martin in Sanford, Florida, and of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, there is fear on the part of young black men of being killed by vigilantes or police for the offense of being black and wearing a hoodie. On the other side of the equation, as NBA team owner Mark Cuban reminded us, is the fact we all have fears about people we do not understand and with whom we do not relate, whether those people wear hoodies or pocket protectors.

On a personal note, I am now of an age where I receive regular invitations to join AARP, and I fear growing old, just as I fear the alternative. I fear serious illness and the high cost of health care, and I fear that Social Security won’t be there when I need it. And, with one child just starting college this fall and another a couple years away, I find myself afraid of how I’m going to pay for it all. As I told my daughter, I’m afraid they don’t award scholarships for texting skills.

Hmmm. Now that I have written about paying for college in a column, I wonder if I could declare the cost of tuition, fees, room and board a business expense? Probably not. I’m afraid that would lead to the unpleasant experience most Americans fear more than public speaking and undergoing a root canal—an audit.