Twenty One

Twenty One
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Now that I reached the magical age in this country, 21, I feel that I have finally become a full member of society. Between my 7670 and my 7671 day on this earth, I grew a plethora of novel enzymes that grant me the herculean feat of digesting alcohol, a substance that previously proved toxic to my system. Yet this extreme metamorphosis came without major pain or shock: at the stroke of midnight last night, like Cinderella played in reverse, I suddenly gained my superpower. Perhaps the subtlety of the transition should have been expected; it has occurred many times in the past when leaving from and returning to the United States during trips where the drinking age is 18.

Of course I cannot be expected to understand the complexity of these biological phenomena, the concepts go far above my head as a student of Physics and Neuroscience. Leaving the hyperbolic extravaganza behind, let me reflect on the societal impact my age has now granted me, moving from broad to personal.

High school and college marketed to me the concept of freedom, of having the opportunity to set my own path. Yet during these past seven years a major barrier lay in my way: a post-dinner city-wide curfew for the ‘underage.’ Save for restaurants, late-night diners, and select cultural events, establishments turned us away in favor of profits from alcohol markups. Even the hookah bar that tided my friend group over two years in college turned me away earlier this year when tobacco consumption was raised to 21 in the Boston area.

The question was, and remains: where do I go while underage if I want to catch up with a friend?

The legal responses, in my opinion, are crummy. Parents’ basement? Offers a myriad of board games, Netflix, and video games. God forbid if you want to chat, the walls are paper thin and sis has school in the morning. Movie theater? So cliché, with conversation strongly discouraged. Restaurant or diner? Spend $20 minimum, and avoid staying too long or you’ll get the stink eye from the waiter looking to make better tips off boozy patrons. Concert or comedy? Sure, just make sure it’s not 21+. And in the end, no option on this list gives you a chance to talk for hours on end.

So on to the illegals. Best case scenario, you find a friend with cool or European parents who overlook the local regulations. Worst case? All-out festivities trashing living rooms when mom and pop take a breather at a weekend conference. Then the in-betweens: after-hour park hangouts and late-night swims in a local pond. As alcohol minors, we can irregularly inject adrenaline into our lives, but it remains far from sustainable on a nightly, weekly basis. Perhaps even worse was the delayed gratification this provided: slipping forbidden fruit of parent’s kitchen cabinets and mass fake ID orders from China added logs to the bonfire of enjoyment that a 21 birthday promised.

Which I find unfortunate, as beer and wine have offered me some of the best conversations in my life that I have been part of. At the same time, these drinks present themselves in the best chats I haven’t been a part of. Many a time has a fruitful, intellectual dinner migrated to nearby bar, where I found myself promptly stopped and turned away. Happy hour after work has become near sacramental, not to mention a key chance to communicate cross-departments.

The truth is, I don’t see alcohol as a rate-limiting step for intoxication, but rather as an overture. It’s odd that having a beer in-between two people counts as more of an activity than meeting up without, but “let’s grab a beer” rings as a welcome calling card without the formality of dinner or coffee. To belabor the point, if I had a dollar for every time I heard “we should do something” these last few years, I’d be a buying a few rounds for the bar tonight.

Overwhelmed by opportunity for now, the cynic in me whispers that my current mindset of inequality will fade with time. In a few years I could be the cool graduate student mentor who slips sips to the undergraduate volunteer, but by the time my own kids come about and mature, I’m sure I’ll be ready to hide the bottle away from their sneaky hands. A serious part of me doesn’t want to slide down this slope. Keeping this past frustrations in mind, I look to provide a healthy model of consumption: alcohol as a catalyst for thought and discussion. I encourage others to do the same, while also brainstorming alternative social settings that can take the place of the bar for the underage.

Do you have an idea? Do you disagree? Let’s grab a beer.

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