There’s a Version of the Nineties
In which we imagine a better past because we can't bring ourselves to imagine a better future
There’s a version of the nineties where no one makes fun of Hootie and the Blowfish.
There’s a version of the nineties where Jerry Brown becomes the 1992 Democratic Party presidential nominee instead of Bill Clinton. Where Jerry Brown selects Diane Feinstein as his running mate.
There’s a version of the nineties where Agent Scully convinces Agent Mulder that it was all in his head, and that maybe he could benefit from some talk therapy—that maybe it would be worth a try. Could he try? For her? Where, later, long after they retire from the FBI, they remain friends and have nice lunches together and are generally pretty good about making time for one another and they continue to care for one another as they progress into their old age.
There’s a version of the nineties where instead of becoming a titan of the senate, Diane Feinstein helps Jerry Brown defeat George W. Bush in a landslide. Where she becomes Vice President Feinstein—a first of many firsts to come.
There’s a version of the nineties where thought-provoking, contemplative hip hop ultimately wins out over juvenile, misogynistic hip hop. Where grunge is limited to an interesting thing that’s happening in the Northwest. Where that’s fine for them but the larger wave of apathy brought on by the disillusionment of the Reagan Era doesn’t spill over and drown a generation. Doesn’t drain us out of the system and into a void. Doesn’t kneecap a generation that history desperately needs to act.
There’s a version of the nineties where we embrace and celebrate queer people and queer culture wholeheartedly, with open arms.
There’s a version of the nineties where President Jerry Brown, still high on Buddhism from his soul-searching trip to Japan, applies the best of the Buddhist principles he’s learned to everything he can think of when he comes home. Where Americans just eat it up, not realizing how much they’ve been craving a calmer, more adult way to conceptualize their suffering and that of their neighbors.
There’s a version of the nineties where all of the Troll Dolls and all of the Beanie Babies make haste by stealth of night. Where they leave our homes and their displays at candy stores and at airport gift shops. Where each and every one of them marches to Washington and occupies the National Mall. Where their wizened elders stand before the nation on an enormous, Woodstock-style stage and warn us of the compounding dangers of plastics in our ecosystem.
There’s a version of the nineties where Bill Clinton leads a less interesting life as a mere multi-term governor of Arkansas. Where he has frequent—if regional—sex scandals. Where Hillary Clinton gets a divorce and moves on with her life.
There’s a version of the nineties where Dave Matthews Band is just a band—just a band that some people like and that some people don’t and that’s fine.
There’s a version of the nineties where President Jerry Brown takes a more measured approach to globalization than Bill Clinton would have. Where President Brown fights for a national living wage and the House and the Senate get on board. Where Detroit is revitalized as America’s hub for clean energy. Where a super group of our best and brightest dedicate themselves to environmental protection. Where every city in America decides to become The City of the Future. Where President Brown and Vice President Feinstein win their reelection bid in a landslide.
There’s a version of the nineties where after that one time when Dennis Franz showed his butt on NYPD Blue during primetime TV, the other networks decided to show butts on their own shows sometimes too. Where butts and boobs and penises and vulvas start to make frequent, casual appearances on American television and no one gets hurt and everyone is fine.
There’s a version of the nineties where President Jerry Brown resigns in 1997 to pursue other interests. Where he doesn’t feel the need to provide a further explanation and we don't feel the need to demand one. Where Diane Feinstein becomes the first woman to serve as President of the United States. Where President Diane Feinstein will go on to win two successive terms in office with a person of color as her running mate. Where America never votes for a man again because they realize what a huge relief it has been—what an undeniable improvement it has been—to drop all pretenses and to let women run things. Women, who are measurably less violent than men, generally speaking.
There’s a version of the nineties where Freddie Mercury doesn’t die.
There’s a version of the nineties where a mental health professional sees Columbine coming and intervenes with those kids. Where that’s enough. Where the headline on the front page of the next day’s news is “Mass Murder at School Averted Thanks to Intervention by Skilled Mental Healthcare Professionals in Colorado Public School System”. Where that alone gets Americans moving on sensible gun control and a complete overhaul of mental healthcare in America’s school systems. Where we are brave enough to shift our culture before the odious maul of manipulative men drops once and for all. Before it wedges us completely, irrevocably apart.
There’s a version of the nineties where I Rollerblade to Australia and I never look back.
There’s a version of the nineties where Russia isn’t taken over by mobsters.
There’s a version of the nineties where rap-rock never happens. Where Kid Rock becomes the person he was always meant to be: an angry little dude just shit-kicking around Michigan.
There’s a version of the nineties where we shoot the internet in the heart with a King-Kong-sized dart gun. Where, while it sleeps, we make our move. Where, like Odysseus, we recognize the internet as the Siren song that it is. Where we plug our ears until we have sailed safely beyond it. Where we see the cauldron of conspiracy theory and misinformation boiling and bubbling. Where we scare off those particular witches before their spell is cast. Where every single adolescent boy on planet Earth isn’t poisoned all at once with a never-ending stream of frequently misogynistic and sometimes degrading pornography. Where the women in charge of the internet take advantage of its dart-induced hibernation and turn it off. Where they tinker with it before reintroducing it into the wild after it has been retrofitted with super-hot, consenting, feminist porn that everyone can enjoy.
There’s a version of the nineties where instead of Bill Clinton announcing the “Don’t ask, don't tell” policy, President Jerry Brown announces the “Can we please all just calm down?” policy.
There’s a version of the nineties where the massive, wave-splitting battleship of American foreign policy is diverted just enough from its course of exploitation that Al Qaeda and Osama Bin Laden and the many of that model that dot the globe feel safe enough to take a less radical approach to their own foreign policies. Where they feel free enough to maybe smoke a joint now and then and to just get together and kick the ball around with their kids a little more often. Where the battleship keeps on turning. Slowing down. Standing down. Where the battleship is covered in thousands upon thousands of literal olive branches. Where its shipmates all stand together on the main deck, staring at the sunrise in wonder.
There’s a version of the nineties where Mariah Carey is about six years younger and I’m about six years older and we meet backstage at a Boyz II Men concert because I’ve won special tickets from contest on the radio. Where we form a progressive, loving partnership.
There’s a version of the nineties where one of the survivors of Tiananmen Square spikes the tea of the Politburo with copious doses of psilocybin. Where the Politburo decides that Taiwan doing its own thing has never been such a big deal after all. Where it decides that Tibet is actually pretty cool the way that it is and that the Tibetans should probably just be left alone too. Where a Uyghur boy wins a national dance competition. Where a glimpse of the goodness in each and every one of us results in Uyghur culture becoming all the rage for a time. Where that kind of love lasts and isn’t lost.
There’s a version of the nineties where Lilith Fair never ends. Where sensible women dominate American culture. Where we learn to listen to survivors of rape and abuse and we make cultural, political, and legal changes to better serve women. Where we are proactive in our feminism and don’t need to wait for a list of demands before we decide to be decent and equitable.
There’s a version of the nineties where Americans get universal healthcare because it’s the right thing to do.
There’s a version of the nineties where the cast of Friends is black.
There’s a version of the nineties where every single white person in America lines up at a podium on a dais at the Lincoln Memorial and apologizes one after the other live on CNN. Where they say they’re sorry and they mean it. Where they say that they’re sorry for slavery, for segregation, for Jim Crow laws, for redlining, for dog whistling. Where they say that they’re sorry for swindling Native Americans out of their land. For forcing them off of their land. Where they say that they’re sorry for side-eyeing the people at our southern border with such unaccountable, festering suspicion. Where all of the white people say, “We’re sorry. We’re so, so sorry,” and they ugly cry, tears streaming down their faces. Where they say, “We’re so goddamned sorry for the brutality, for the cruelty, and for the hate we held in our hearts and for the hate we let others hold in theirs.” Where one by one, each and every white person asks for forgiveness. Where the next day, President Feinstein declares National All-Races Lunch Day where white people and people of color will get together locally in small groups and have lunch and just talk. Where the practice sticks and eventually we don’t need a special day to remember that we’re neighbors.
There’s a version of the nineties where I get the help that I need while I’m still young. Where I become better prepared for my adult life. Where my mom has better support at home. Where I’m able to ask my dad a thing or two before he dies—ask him the questions that this forty-something version of me has now. Where at the end of high school, I set out into the world a little bit stronger, a little bit braver. Excited for the days to come. Excited to help.
There’s a version of the nineties where my new lunch buddies and I sit in lawn chairs and share our food on the Fourth of July and watch the fireworks together. Where the tension in our necks disappears. Where the music and the colors in the night sky let us know that everything is going to be okay.
This was such a warm read! Thanks for sharing!